Fear

Rating: PG-13 for medical details and high angst

Warnings: This fic is rated for graphic medical details, contains some violence (fights) and hints at darker themes, but contains no sex or slash. 

Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkien's - I make no profit but my own pleasure from using them in fiction.  

Story description: Falls can be deadly - especially if you are a very young Frodo Baggins.  A brooding cousin and a fabulous necklace form the backdrop for this tale of angst and heartache, dire injury and long healing.

Author's Note:  I realize this seems an odd beginning for 'High Fro Angst' - but bear with me.  Good angst must be cultured.

Chapter 1: Dody and the Mithril Necklace

Chapter 1

Along the banks of the Brandywine River, the land was lush and green.  Plants, both cultivated and wild, grew in wild profusion in the deep, black soils that had accumulated over centuries of deposition.  The meandering river's patient, irresistible current had carved shallow channels out of the floodplain and these hollows had been filled with dense thickets of alder, hemlock and willow.  Industrious hobbit farmers worked on the flats between the channels, their fields scattered amid lush oxbow wetlands and long spits of new washed stone that marked the river's former course.  There was a good life to be gotten there from the fruitful earth and for nearly as long as they had resided there the Brandybuck clan had thrived.  They grew pipeweed and cotton for income and corn and barley for their own uses and built their holes and houses up into the highlands where the rising floodwaters would never reach.  They also kept watch on the border of the wild, for their lands formed the very edge of the Shire. 

There had been difficulties, of course.  The Old Forest that was the first taste of the wild lands beyond had, upon occasion, fought their settlement.  The trees wanted to regain the lush lands closest to the river, but the planting of the High Hay, with its strong alder boughs and tangled hazel, had given the hobbits an upper hand in the long dispute.  The unruly trees were now kept in their place, but woe be to anyone who stepped onto their side of the hedge.  More recently there had been the fell winter of 1311.  Heavy snows had blanketed the fields from the Far Downs to the North Gate and, as the winter held on long into spring, food stores began to run out.  Nearly a generation of Buckland children died from the cold and deprivation that year and when the wolves came from the east overrunning their land to cross the frozen river, many stout hobbit lads were also lost defending the villages. 

The loss of so many young ones and strapping lads had been a dreadful blow to the Bucklanders.  Although hobbits are a fruitful people, Buckland had suffered much more cruelly than folk in the rest of the Shire.  The losses created a gap in the population of Buckleberry for years.  Children who survived the Fell Winter had few playmates and when they grew to adulthood, found they had to marry hobbits far younger or older than themselves or look outside Buckland for a mate.  Even so, every 30 to 40 years the great rooms of Brandy Hall would take on a noticeable calm and the sound of children's joyful laughter would be sorely missed.  The summer of 1376 was one of those quiet times for the only young hobbit child in Brandy Hall was 8-year-old Frodo Baggins, though he was far from quiet. 

Frodo was, as his father Drogo proclaimed with pride, all boy.  A rough and tumble lad with fine delicate features and a quick laugh.  Sweet, bright and charming, he stole the hearts of the Hall's matrons as easily as he stole cooling tarts from its kitchens.  Whenever the family stayed in Buckland (which was often, considering that Rory continued Gorbadoc's tradition of keeping a well stocked table) the Brandybucks spoiled him rotten, for he was an uncommon child born into a time when children were uncommonly rare. 

The next youngest of the lads in the hall was 21 year old Dody Brandybuck.  Dody was tall and thinner than most with dark curling hair and deep-set eyes.  He looked very much like Frodo, the two seeming like different aged sides of the same coin - but where people noted Frodo's irrepressible optimism and bright blue eyes, they saw only darkness in Dody's brown-eyed, sullen gaze.  It might have been just his nature, but there was his upbringing to consider as well.  The first 13 years of Dody's life had been ones of pampered privilege; he was the last grandchild Gorbadoc and Mirabella had lived to see and they'd set the tone for how he was to be treated by the rest of the clan.  He was the center of attention and everyone's darling, at least until Primula had given birth to Frodo.  Afterwards, there seemed to be little tolerance for Dody's antics.  The lenience and consideration he'd grown up accustomed to receiving were suddenly being given to the baby.  Such an abrupt reversal would have irked the most even-tempered soul, but for someone as dark and brooding as Dody, it was an outrage.  He'd grown resentful in the years since and would have loved to loathe his cousin over his change of fortune, but Frodo was such a kind, charming child, it was difficult for even Dody to hate him.  He tried for active abhorrence, but all he could seem to manage was to ignore the boy. 

But even without comparing him to Frodo, most folk in Brandy Hall would not have liked Dody Brandybuck very much.  He'd grown up proud, haughty and angry at the world.  He was sullen and could be cruel at times, as if he wanted everyone else to feel some of the hurt that life had dealt him.  Many just considered him mean; the kind of hobbit that was just no good through and through and dismissed him accordingly.  Just as they had his father before him. 

His father was Dodinas, fourth son of old Gorbadoc and though a respected businessman, he was not known for his kindness either.  When Dodinas married Lacy Broadbent, it was hoped that her gentleness would soften him and that it did for as long as she lived.  Her daughters Dauca and Dina favored her in looks and temperament, but it was Dody, her only son, and the mirror of his father, who was most devoted to her.  Lacy was probably the only person who could ever reach Dody and the two were as close as a mother and son had ever been.  She had died two years before and Dody had been crushed to the point of despair.  Though Dodinas and Dody were as alike as two peas in a pod, only Lacy had been able to bring them together.  Whatever filial love might have existed between father and son had died with her and since her passing they had drifted even further apart. 

Being as Dody was younger than most of the other hobbit lads of Brandy Hall by nearly 10 years, he had few friends his own age and tended to tag along after the older boys when they would allow him.  They, Milo Burrows, and Seredic, Marmadas and Darroc Brandybuck, tolerated his presence with good humor, but he was never really one of them.  He was valuable in one respect, however.  He was a useful patsy.  Folk were quicker to suspect sour faced Dody of foul play than any of them, the older boys being deemed too fine and upstanding to engage in such nonsense.  Dody knew they kept him around for this purpose but he didn't really care.  At least they kept him around. 

One bright summer morning the band set off for adventures along the High Hay, with Dody following along as was his custom.  They planned on visiting areas where the Old Forest grew thick against the ancient barrier, and gnarled branches of the more malevolent trees actually reached over it.  Dody had been moodier than usual but as the other lads tended to ignore him, his bad humor was not questioned.  It wasn't until Seredic, at 28 the next youngest and most kindly of the older boys, asked him what the matter was that they got any idea what was bothering him.

"I've taken my mother's necklace back from that wench Marietta."  His tone was low and serious and just a bit cocky as if he was not sure if he was proud of himself or frightened at what he had done.  The others, overhearing, stopped in their tracks. 

"You did WHAT?" exclaimed Marmadas, the eldest of them and just shy of his coming of age.  He turned in the narrow path and glared down at Dody.  The other boys scurried to get out of the way.  "You stole your stepmother's necklace?!?"

Dody took a step back, but his narrow face hardened and he shoved a hand deep into his pocket.  "It wasn't hers," he growled.  "It was my mother's and my father had no right to give it away."  His companions shifted in uncomfortable silence, not certain what to say in response.  "I'll not give it back so don't even ask." 

The other boys glanced at each other worriedly.  They were known to be a bit of a wild bunch, but regardless of the justification, this was a real theft.  Lacy Brandybuck's necklace was a treasure of immeasurable worth.  There was nothing like it anywhere else in the Shire.  Its theft was a very serious matter and while the boys might have tolerated such an act from one of their own, knowing that it was done as a prank and that the item would be returned, they had no such confidence about Dody.  He was hotheaded, barely tweenaged and volatile, and just foolish enough to really take the thing.

The boy pulled his hand from his pocket and there, clutched in his white knuckled fist, was a necklace of mithril and diamonds that glittered almost unbearably in the sun.  He glared at them as if daring his companions to try and wrest it from him.  Any one of the older boys was more than a match for him in strength though none but Marmadas, who snorted with disgust, seemed willing to test the boy's mettle.  They all knew how much he hated his stepmother and how much his father's gift to her of his dead mother's necklace grated on him.  By custom, a lady hobbit's possessions were passed to her daughters at her death, but since this valuable trinket had been the gift of one of Dodinas' relatives, the eccentric Bilbo Baggins of Hobbiton, Dodinas had claimed the right to bequeath it where he saw fit.  Many others besides Dody questioned the legality (and judgment) of his actions, but apparently only Dody had been bothered enough by it to steal. 

"I'll not have my mother's memory tainted or her possessions given to that gold digging tart!"  Dody's small face was red with fury, and he glared up at the older hobbits defiantly. 

"We know how you feel, Dody," Milo Burrows began.  "But isn't this a bit rash?  That's a valuable necklace.  It was part of Old Bilbo's booty and came all the way from some dragon horde away east.  Surely you can see how serious this is?  It's not like a pinched pie or a night out when you shouldn't have been.  If someone asks where the necklace has gone, we'll have to tell."  He looked to Seredic and Darroc who nodded their agreement.  Marmadas had not moved.  "It's too precious a thing not to be missed.  Quick now, you have to take it back before you get into trouble."

Dody's face grew redder and his fist tightened on the bauble in his fury.  "No…" he whispered.  "You can't make me!"

Marmadas started to step forward, possibly to prove that he indeed could, but Seredic, who had always been the diplomat among them, quickly placed himself between the boys.  He reached to put a comforting hand on Dody's shoulder but the youngster shrugged away and shifted his hot gaze to his friend.  Seredic shook his head.  "No one's going to force you, Dody… but the tale will come out.  I know you don't expect us to lie for you.  Maybe your father was wrong to give your mother's jewels away, but two wrongs won't put anything right," he sighed, sadly.  "And besides, being mean to Marietta isn't going to bring your mother back."

Dody quivered with frustrated fury and he cursed himself for his big mouth.  The theft had been a heavy burden on his conscience, for such things were not tolerated among honest, hardworking hobbits, and he had ached to talk about it with someone.  He had hoped the older boys would be sympathetic or at least keep silent, but he should have known there was no one in Brandy Hall he could truly confide in.  He had been foolish, and had misjudged the situation completely but he still had no intention of taking the jewels back.  His father's treasonous remarriage was enough of a betrayal of his mother's memory, but when Dodinas had given Marietta the necklace, that had been the last straw.  It was his mother's favorite possession and there was no other treasure like it in the Shire.  Dody was certain she would not have wanted the hated Marietta to have it. 

Seredic smiled reassuringly though neither antagonist apperared willing to heed him.  Marmadas seemed itching to knock the defiant expression off Dody's face, but Seredic doubted a beating would help the situation.  Dodinas had never been one to spare the rod and though Dody had spent most of the last two years covered in bruises, Seredic had not seen it improve his attitude.  He took another step towards the boy.  "Please, Dody.  Use your sense!  You can't get away with this and a bit of revenge isn't worth the trouble you're going to get for it."  Seredic kept his tone kindly but all Dody seemed to note was the older boy was coming closer.

"I don't care what happens to me," said Dody, his voice betraying his growing desperation.  "She'll not have my mother's treasure!  I'll cast it into the river before I give it back, I swear."

"Then you'd best have a heck of an arm," retorted Marmadas, finally seeming to reach the end of his patience.  "You'll never get close enough to do it now."  He pushed Seredic aside and made a move to grab at Dody.  Dody cursed and darted back down the path.  He knew he had no chance of outrunning the older boys, but he wasn't going to give up without a fight. 

"Why, you…!"  Marmadas growled and beat after him in pursuit.

Dody could hear the boys following and realized his time was brief.  He pulled up and with all his strength, threw the necklace high, hoping to cast it over the hedge and into the Old Forest.  Few would dare venture in there after it, even if they knew where it had gone.  Just as the gems left his fingertips, Marmadas hit him hard in the back and he was hurled several feet along the path.  Darroc shouted and pointed, following the gems as they tumbled end over end, sparkling brilliantly in the sunlight to disappear high above them into the canopy of an old oak. 

"Well, that's done it," seethed Marmadas pulling Dody roughly to his feet.  He glared back at Dody's still defiant face.  "I ought to beat you to within an inch of your life." 

"Why bother?" asked Darroc flanking the boy and cruelly pinching the tip of his pointed ear.  "His father will do the job for you.  Dodinas may be a miserable sot, but he's got no qualms about keeping his own by-blows in line."  The two nodded, agreeing with evil grins.

"Well, let's find that necklace, or we'll catch it hot too," said Milo.  "This little one's not worth me getting into trouble over.  Come on.  He threw it in this direction.  Between the four of us, we ought to be able to find it."

And so, with Dody held captive between them, the boys began to search the little grove at the border of the High Hay.  The trees were thick and almost looked to be part of the Old Forest itself, but the floor of the grove was open and piled deeply with dead leaves.  It did not look as if it would be difficult to find a string of bright gemstones on such a dark and dismal mat.

TBC

Chapter 2 - The Watcher

Unobserved by the boys below, a hobbit child sat perched high amid the branches of the very oak into which the necklace had disappeared.  Young Frodo Baggins had been very proud of himself for managing to climb that tree.  It was tall and its lowest branches were higher than he could reach, but he'd found a way up by walking carefully along an arching branch that he had found lying against the trunk.  It was quite an accomplishment for so young a hobbit lad and he was elated with the feeling of freedom and daring of being so dizzyingly high off the ground.

He'd been pretending - something he always liked to do - and the tree's inviting heights offered too tempting an enticement for him.  From its boughs he could imagine himself deep in the shadowy realms of Mirkwood, seeing wood elves at banquet in the distance under the dark, sundappled shade or imagining a pack of hungry wargs circling the tree's base while he searched the sky for eagles.  Old Uncle Bilbo's stories were his favorites.  He'd first heard them when his mother and father had taken him visiting in Hobbiton.  He would listen for hours, curled up on his elder cousin's knee, as Bilbo rattled on about elves and dwarves and far places no other hobbit had ever seen.  Many times he'd drift off to sleep dreaming of the world Bilbo's warm voice evoked, of grand adventures in lands far beyond the Shire.  Everything that Bilbo talked about seemed wild and wonderful, even the aspects he described as dark and unpleasant.  Elves and men and dwarves had to be more exciting than the inhabitants of the peaceful, green valleys of the Shire Frodo had always known. 

Frodo saw the boys when they first came into view, but they were too far away for him to hear what was being said.  It looked like they were arguing, from the tenseness of Marmadas' back, but as Frodo couldn't hear them, he only worried that they would see him and command him to come down at once.  Anytime he started having fun adults put an end to it.  He was never allowed to do anything really interesting.  But this time he was determined.  He'd managed to evade his nurse, and sneak out of the hall without anyone noticing.  He wasn't about to let the boys below ruin his adventure.  He slid back against the tree trunk and kept very quiet and still in the shadowed heights to wait for them to go away. 

It wasn't until one of the boys began to run towards his tree that Frodo started to wonder what was going on.  It was Dody Brandybuck, his cousin, being pursued and it didn't look as if he would get very far.  Marmadas Brandybuck, another of Frodo's cousins, was close behind but just as Dody made it to the foot of the tree he stopped and threw something high into the air.  Frodo followed the object and was amazed when it turned and caught the morning sunlight.  So bright!  The sparkly thing soared, higher and higher until, at last, its chain caught on a branch at the very tiptop of the tree.  The momentum of the throw caused the gems to whip around several times, wrapping themselves tightly around the twig.  Frodo stared, aghast, for he had never before seen anything so lovely in his life.  Why would Dody throw something so beautiful away?  Frodo looked down at his cousins and saw them manhandling Dody.  They obviously couldn't understand why either and quickly broke up into pairs, searching the ground,… for the necklace, Frodo assumed.

They must have thought it dropped to the ground again past the tree, for they seemed to be headed into the woods up against the hedge.  Frodo smiled.  They wouldn't find it there.  Only HE knew where it truly was!  He glanced up and studied the bright bauble entrapped above him.  It must be a very important piece of jewelry to inspire such frantic activity.  The boys below were certainly looking for it with single-minded determination.  What would they do if he brought the necklace down to them?  Probably take it, mutter thanks, and a moment later forget he even existed.  Frodo had been ignored by his older cousins often enough to be pretty sure of their response.  But what if he got it and brought it back to the Hall?  Surely someone was missing it?  It was most decidedly not a toy, but a very valuable treasure.  Treasure?  Frodo peered at it more closely.  Yes!  Treasure!  Here was a bit of a dragon's treasure!  And he was just the thief to steal it!  The lad grinned ear to ear.  Retrieving the necklace would be as daring as sneaking into a dragon's lair to steal a great jewel out from under the dragon's nose!  This would be an adventure to rival even one of old Uncle Bilbo's tales!

The necklace had wrapped itself around a slight branch just below the surface of the tree's canopy.  It was definitely out of Frodo's reach from where he currently sat, straddling the crook of a large limb, but as he considered the lay of the branches above him, he thought he saw a way he could reach it.  The limbs were smaller up there, but he was light and strong, and he thought they should hold him enough to reach the necklace.  Frodo jumped up and began to climb higher, moving through the branches like an otter, shinnying up the trunk with the fearless abandon of indestructible youth.  He had never been a timid or hesitant child - his elders considered it a part of his charm - and as he clambered up the tree he did not notice, or even consider, how dizzyingly high he was climbing. 

There was a branch just below where the necklace was trapped and Frodo stepped out onto it, preparing to crawl out to where he could reach it.  Unfortunately, he hadn't thought through the factor of his own weight when he'd made this plan.  Though he was small and light, the branch dipped lower and lower the further he crept along it.  By the time he'd gotten directly under the necklace, the branch had dropped down too far for him to reach it.

"Bother…," he muttered, and moved back to the base of the branch.  The only way he was going to get at the necklace was by climbing along the selfsame branch it was tied to, but that was at the very top of the canopy.  If he clambered onto that, there would be no other branches beside it for him to hold onto.  He frowned, thinking.  There really was nothing else for it.  If he were going to reach the necklace, he would have to attempt the climb.

The limb was thin, and arching, but being so close to the open sky, it had many side branches and lots of leaves.  As Frodo worked his way along it, he had to fight the exuberant growth to even find the main stem, let alone grip it, but he managed.  Slowly, he progressed and the still sparkling gems came nearer to his reach.  Yes, from this branch he could easily get them.  Just a few more feet…

Like the previous branch, this light bough was bending under Frodo's weight, but since the necklace was attached to it directly, he hadn't thought that would cause any problem.  He would still be able to reach it no matter how much it bent, or so he thought.  He pulled along the branch for what he thought would be his last effort and suddenly found himself tipping dangerously.  The thinning branch flexed like a whip, dipping even more precariously and causing Frodo to slide further down its length.  Although he held on with all his strength he was soon dangling, helpless, head downward on the branch. 

Frodo swallowed his panic and forced his brain to think.  He'd gotten himself into this and the only ones around to get him out of it were his cousins below.  Oh, how they would taunt and scold him if he called for their help!  And they would find the necklace if he did that too.  He would suffer the humiliation of having to be rescued and be deprived of any glory he might have earned for finding the treasure.  No, he needed to do this himself.  He shifted a bit, and realized that if he could get himself turned around on the branch, he could probably drop down to the bough he had been standing on earlier.  Yes!  He could do this.  And if he was VERY clever, he would keep hold of the branch he was on and still be able to free the necklace. 

He slipped his ankle over the small branch and prepared to slide carefully off to the right.  The slight bough shifted and Frodo heard a sudden crack.  There was a sickening drop as the narrowing limb fell beneath him.  It was not broken off completely and Frodo's fall was checked with a jerk but the motion jarred his grip on the stem loose.  The ground rushed towards him and, with a sudden lurch, Frodo realized how terribly high he was.  Panic stricken, he clamped his thighs around the branch, trying to hold on with his legs, but all he succeeded in doing was plastering slippery green leaves to it.  He was sliding… and then falling.  His hands clutched desperately and met nothing but leaves that ripped off in his fingers.  There was a bright sparkle in the corner of his eye, the necklace rushing past his face, and then a blinding, painful flash as his head struck the branch below.  His fingers clawed at the bark, but whether he was too stunned or just not strong enough to grasp the branch he never had time to wonder.  His small body whipped around and he continued his fall backwards.  He started to scream but the next blow his body received silenced him.  The back of his head struck something infinitely harder than the small branch that had grazed his forehead and his mind exploded into starry blackness.  He didn't even feel his arm breaking when his body thudded into the lowest branch, nor the cool duff against his cheek as his limp form dropped to the forest floor.

TBC.... No, you think I would leave you here?!?

Chapter 3 - Triage

"What was that?"  Milo said, hearing the choked cry from above.  Seredic turned just as the limp form hit and his rosy cheeks instantly paled.  The figure had fallen nerveless, like some discarded doll and now lay in a crumpled heap at the base of the tree.  His heart filled with sick dread.  The figure was far too small to be anything but a young child.

"Oh, no," he whispered and rushed over.  Dark curls and thin, knobby knees were his first impression, but as he got closer his dread became a sinking panic.  This was not some farmer's child who'd taken a misstep, but his own young cousin Frodo.  The boy was barely old enough to be out of his mother's arms and too young to be running about in the forest unsupervised.  Seredic sank beside him, terrified.  Frodo lay unmoving, a clumsy jumble of pale, scraped limbs.  Trembling, Seredic peered into the battered face, hoping beyond hope for some sign that the boy was still breathing.  Milo, coming up behind him, shouted to the others and Darroc and Marmadas, each with a hand on Dody, rushed back also.

"Don't move him!" Seredic hissed as Milo knelt on the other side of Frodo's body.  The boy was still breathing but his lips were rimmed with blood.  His nose was bleeding and his right arm was draped at an odd angle across his chest.  Broken, the older boy thought.  There was a cut on his forehead that oozed blood and several wicked looking scratches across his face.  Seredic was sick with fear.  The boy looked bad, very bad.  "Milo," he commanded, taking his friend's coat urgently.  "Get me two sticks, about his arm's length, and as straight as you can find!"  His friend jumped up to obey and Seredic whipped off his coat and waistcoat to reach his shirt.  The loose cotton weave would serve to tie up a splint.  Darroc and Marmadas, almost carrying the recalcitrant Dody, came up behind Seredic as he began tending Frodo.

"What happened?" asked Darroc in a frightened whisper.

Seredic grunted and shook his head but didn't stop tearing his shirt into strips.  Marmadas looked up into the oak's canopy and whistled low and appreciatively.

"How far up was he?" he murmured.  "Must have been pretty high, or we'd have seen him.  We were right here."

Dody glanced into the treetops also wondering where his little cousin had been sitting.  He'd thrown the necklace from the very spot they now stood.  How could he have missed seeing him?  He peered into the heights.  The bright sun glinted behind a lattice of dark green.  Yes, if Frodo had been high up, even his white shirt would have been obscured.  His stomach lurched with a sudden wave of empathetic vertigo.  The top of the canopy was at least 40 feet above the ground.  Dody shuddered.  He might not have been overly fond of his little cousin, but seeing him lying so still scared him. 

The others were speaking in low, concerned tones, afraid to move the child, but trying to determine what to do.  Darroc's suggestion that they send back to the hall for help was weighed against Frodo's quickly paling face and in the end it was decided they had no time to waste in such an attempt.  They would carry him there themselves.  Dody fidgeted, feeling both useless in this dire matter and still very much in trouble for his theft.  He tried to casually loosen his cousin's hand, hoping to have been forgotten in their preoccupation, but after one furious look from Marmadas, he stopped.  His sullenness and anger returned but he also began to think.  Despite the current situation, he knew the older boys would not overlook his misdeed.  Dody would have to get the necklace back, there was no longer any way around it.  He wondered if subconsciously he had known they would force him to do the right thing - and that had his admission had been a final cry from his conscience.  If indeed he still even had one.  Since the death of his mother, Dody had watched the last of what might have been good in him slip into shadow.

Some small part of him hated what he was becoming, but the rest seemed to welcome the darkness.  It fed his outrage and grief, turning them into bitterness and hate.  It pushed him to strike as he was struck and make others pay for what life had stolen from him, regardless of the consequences.  There might still have been a last bit of light in him, but the bitterness was stronger and Dody could see no way off the dark course his life had taken.

He was still pondering the problem of the necklace's return when a thought began to grow in his mind.  He had thrown it from this point, and though  he had been unable to follow where his cast had led, his young cousin had probably been watching them and his sight would not have been compromised by the sun.

"What if Frodo saw something?" he mused.

Dody didn't realize he'd voiced his question out loud until Marmadas's hand tightened cruelly on his arm.  The younger lad cried out. 

"Is THAT all you care about?!?!" Marmadas hissed.  "Your own worthless hide?  'What if he saw anything?'!?  Why I ought to…"

"Not now!" Seredic growled.  "We have to get this child back to the Hall and quick!  A fall like this could kill him."

Milo returned with the two sticks Seredic requested.  With a shaking hand, Seredic felt at Frodo's neck.  There was a weak but steady pulse.  That, at least, was heartening.  He carefully laid the makeshift splint against Frodo's small arm and began to bind it.  The break was low, just above the elbow, but had not driven the bone much out of line.  Seredic was careful as he tied the splint tightly in place, but the process should still have been extremely painful.  That the child didn't even flinch as the bone was set was a very bad sign.

"I'm going to carry him.  Marmadas, can you get back to the hall quick and see if you can find Drogo?  And we'll need a healer.  Darroc, you go with him and see if you can't locate Daisy Burrows.  Or even old Doc Clearwater, but Daisy'd be better.  She's best with the little ones."  Seredic quickly felt along the child's other limbs.  There were scratches and red welts that he knew would be bruises soon, but none of his other bones seemed broken.  They would have to chance it.  Little Frodo still hadn't so much as twitched.

Darroc nodded and looked to Marmadas.  His friend's face became grim as he nodded in answer but before he took off, he spared Dody a blistering look.  "We aren't through with you yet," he promised.  "We are going to find that necklace and you are going to return it, or so help me, you are going to end in far worse condition than this child."  He gave Dody's arm a final, brutal squeeze and then ran after Darroc down the path.  Dody was left standing sullenly and rubbing his arm as Seredic lifted Frodo.  Milo stabilized the child's splinted limb so that it was supported and did not swing about.

"Dody, I'd really suggest you consider your situation carefully," said Seredic.  "And look for that necklace while we take care of this."  He settled Frodo's small head over his shoulder.  "Things would go a sight better for you if you were the one who returned it, mark my words."

Dody still looked defiant and sullen, but nodded as if agreeing.  "But you misunderstand me," he protested in a low voice.  "I just thought if Frodo saw anything he might tell…"

Mild mannered Milo Burrows reached the end of his tolerance.  He whipped around and landed a hard punch in Dody's shocked face, knocking the lad back and right off his feet.  He had just finished securing Frodo's splinted arm and had found no signs of consciousness in his bright blue eyes.  Dody's seemingly self-centered concerns in the face of the child's dire injury were too much for him to bear.

"You disgust me," gasped Milo through gritted teeth, each word distinct and sharp with loathing.  "This baby's life is a heck of a lot more important than your worthless hide."

Dody writhed, cowering on the ground and holding his hand to his nose.  It was bleeding.  Even Seredic looked down at him with sad contempt.  Milo shook his head and dismissed the younger boy with a wave of his hand. 

"Ah, you're not even worth bothering with…" 

Without another word, they started off down the path leaving Dody lying in the dust.  He watched their retreating backs and felt a cold anger rise in him.  

They misunderstood him so completely, thinking he was only worried that Frodo might wake and say something to incriminate him, that he no longer felt any inclination to step back into the light.  It wouldn't matter if he explained, as he was desperately assuring himself, that he was only voicing his ironic observation that under better circumstances, Frodo might have told them exactly where the necklace lay.  They already thought him useless and cruel, unable to even feel pity for an injuried child, and nothing would change their perceptions, of that he was sure.  He had tried to make a gesture, to take the first step in returning the stones, but such leanings had now been beaten irrevocably out of him by Milo and Marmadas.  Damn them.  Damn them all.

He drew his knees up to his chest and sat under the old oak nursing his bleeding nose and feeling very, very sorry for himself.

TBC

Chapter 3 - Screaming

It seemed only an instant later but Frodo knew something was different.  He was no longer falling, but the plunging feeling was still gripping his stomach.  His head was resting on someone's shoulder and hurt horribly.  They were walking quickly and each jostling step sent more waves of pain through him.  He tried to open his eyes, but the brightness confused him.  His whole world seemed to be jerking past in halting half turns.  The only thing that he could see clearly was the trail falling sickeningly away and he was suddenly gripped with a wild fear.  He was going to fall again!  He cried out and struggled to turn his face into the chest of the one who held him, away from the sight of the roiling ground, but whoever it was who held him seemed unwilling to provide this simple comfort.  His captor kept a hand on the back of Frodo's head, keeping his face turned so that it dangled in mid air above what seemed a cavernous space of spinning air.  Hanging that way made his head hurt even worse, and the fear of falling churned the pit of his stomach.  Oh, but he was miserable. 

"…, help me!  He's about to…"  The words filtered into Frodo's tortured brain, but he could make no sense of them.  The one who held him spun him around and put him on his feet.  For a brief moment, Frodo was standing shakily and then he threw up. His caretaker wrapped an arm across his chest as he retched and leaned his body over it.  His legs buckled as the spasms of vomiting shook him but the arm held him up.  Frodo felt he was leaning over a precipice and the only thing keeping him from toppling into the depths was that arm and it held him none too closely.  His head had hurt before, but now it felt like it was splitting in half.  The agony of it blotted out every other sensation.  Even before he had finished heaving, he began to scream, but the sound that came forth, a haunting monotone wail, sounded odd even to his ears.  It was the best he could do; a scream that really echoed the depths of his terror would have hurt his head too much, but for some reason once he started the pitiful, monotonous howling, he could not stop.

Seredic knew what was coming, he felt it in the tensing of the child's stomach muscles, and was prepared.  He dropped Frodo onto his feet, though to keep him standing, he had to support his whole weight.  The boy was trembling, his eyes were closed and his skin was a damp, pasty white.  Seredic aimed his face away and jerked back his feet just in time to avoid getting vomit on his toes.  Frodo's legs buckled the moment he started heaving but Seredic had him securely as he hung, convulsing, off the older boy's arm.  Seredic had fallen of the roof off one of the outbuildings when he was 12, so he knew what Frodo probably felt like.  It had worried him when Frodo didn't even flinch during the splinting process but throwing up was normal for an injury like this and the fact that Frodo was doing so was actually encouraging.  The boy might not be in great shape but at least he wasn't about to expire in his arms. 

"You done?" Seredic asked with joking fondness but no lack of empathy.  "No more surprises?"  The tiny child hung limply off his arm but still twitched with heaves.  Seredic touched the back of his head gently.  "It's O.K. - you'll be all right."  Frodo's hair seemed wet and when Seredic looked at his hand he saw it was from blood.  The whole back of Frodo's head was soaked with it.  Chilling realization swallowed any relief Seredic might have begun to feel and just as the dread began to fill him, Frodo began to wail. 

It was an eerie call, half howl, half scream, but completely wretched and pitiful; one long, pain-ridden tone that neither wavered nor fell.  The child paused only to take a breath before beginning another cry in the same haunted monotone.  Seredic snatched him up and he and Milo began to jog even faster towards the Hall.  Frodo kept wailing, seemingly oblivious to anything around him.  The cry he made was the kind a desperately wounded animal would make, the kind that ran up your spine and froze your blood, the kind you could understand instinctively even if you had never heard a hobbit make such a sound; here was a creature in agony.

While he screamed, his head didn't hurt so much, but the moment he stopped, the pain redoubled.  He dreaded even pausing for a breath, the agony in his head seemed to wait for those moments to torment him, so he kept on screaming.  It was a focus, a guide - something he could control while his world spun crazily around him.  Bright sun, and then dappled shade.  His stomach lurched again but there was nothing left to expel.  Oh, why were they holding him this way?  He wanted desperately to feel safe, held close in the soft protection of his mother's embrace.  Even with the pain, he would have felt far less desperately terrified with her loving arms tight about him. 

Bright sun again, and this time it was more than a brief flash of light through the trees.  The whir of color around him changed to bright green.  The outer fields.  They were nearing… what?  Strangely, he could not make his mind remember where he was.  The pain blocked out everything.  He held on to his wail until he was completely out of breath and at the last possible moment drew another to renew it.  The agony was almost unbearable - and even the keening cry was losing its effectiveness.  He closed his eyes and screamed. 

Primula was hanging wash in the bright morning sunlight; Drogo's deep green brocaded waistcoat, Frodo's little white night shirt, her own sunny yellow petticoat - the tidy labors of washday morning.  It was hard work, but at least there were only the three of them in her family to do laundry for.  She smoothed the careful stitching on a little pair of breeches.  In time, she hoped, the job would be a larger one.  There had been two children so far; one, a daughter, who did not survive her birth, and her son, Frodo.  She clipped the pants to the line and the wind lifted them.  Frodo was 8 years old now, but she still felt the loss of his sister keenly.  His coming so soon after eased the ache, but there still remained a hole in her heart.  It was perhaps because Primula had already lost one child that she had always been so careful with her son.  He was all she had.  She and Drogo had been trying for another child for a couple of years, but, as yet, they had not been successful. 

She wiped her hands on her apron to dry them as the last of the bedsheets caught the summer breeze.  Menegilda, her sister in law and undisputed head of the ladies of Brandy Hall, contended that it was just a matter of patience to be gotten with child - that if Primula kept herself busy and didn't dwell on the problem, she would be pregnant again before she knew it.  Menegilda had not had difficulty in that regard and Primula hoped she was right.  The nightshirt fluttered in the light breeze and caressed her cheek.  She had chosen the fabric carefully; a wool that was blended with finest cotton to give it softness.  Only the best for her little princeling.  She smiled, remembering the feeling of his small hands on her cheeks, his jam covered lips giving her a happy good-bye kiss before going off to play in the hall.  He might have been her one and her only - but Primula knew she couldn't have asked for a more perfect child.

A sound broke her bittersweet reverie; faint, but growing, and it chilled her despite the sunlit morning.  The strain was weak and barely discernable as it rose on the wind, but her body reacted to it, freezing still and tensing, before her mind fully registered what it was.  As it grew and came closer, Primula gasped in terror.  Her heart began to thud heavily in her chest.  Fear ran like ice water through her veins.  It was an eerie, heartaching call but Primula knew it was a hobbit - and that made it all the more terrible.  Whoever it was was dreadfully wounded and in immeasurable pain.  It sounded too high and clear for an adult voice.  A child then, and this was no scraped knee that would be eased with a well placed kiss.  This was a grave hurt, and deadly.  The cry rose a bit as the wind dropped and Primula reeled.  Yes, it was a child, and the sudden realization struck her like a physical blow.  It was her son who was screaming.

Primula had never in her life felt such a surge of pure, primal fear grip her and it spurred her to frantic action.  Wash abandoned, reverie forgotten, she ran towards the source of the sound as fast as her bare feet would carry her.  Buckland was a narrow strip of land between the High Hay and the Brandywine but it was quite long.  The sound seemed to becoming from away north.  She ran through her family's tobacco field, heedless of the valuable young plants and swerved almost blindly through the stanchions.  Field hands busily attaching shade nets to the weathered frames had paused and were staring off towards the wood.  The sound was getting both closer and weaker.  Suddenly she saw two hobbits emerging from the edge of the trees carrying a small child in their arms.  Primula's heart, already beating rapidly with fear and exertion, seized painfully and she sprang forward with a hysterical cry.  She could see her nephew Seredic's face now.  It was sorrowful and ashen and when he looked up and saw her approaching, he blanched even paler.

"NO….!" Primula screamed as she rushed towards them.  Her tears fell heedless and her breath came in great trembling gasps as she stumbled to Seredic's side.  She cradled her son's pale cheek and his blue eyes fluttered a bit, but still he howled.  The sound faded as he ran out of breath, but he drew in another and continued, oblivious to her touch.  "What happened?!" Primula demanded with a trembling, grief broken voice and taking his small face in both her hands.  His left eye was beginning to swell shut and there was dried blood caked on his face from a bloody nose and cut eyebrow.  His bright eyes, half lidded, would not focus on her.  The icy cold terror clenched Primula's belly and she started shaking.  Though she was no healer, she could sense the chill of death stealing upon her son.  She had seen it before, had felt the helpless fury and blind agony of its cruel touch, but this time it would not take her only child from her without a fight.

A female voice, far away but coming closer.  The sound made Frodo pause in his cries, but the pain returned again and he was obliged to continue.  He heard weeping.  The female voice was nearly hysterical, but something about it comforted him.  Other voices were speaking but he could no longer even pick out the words.  The pain was getting worse and the fog in his brain thicker.  His world still spun in curiously dizzying, half halting turns, but the edges of things he could see and hear were dimming.  If only the pain would recede as his other senses were.

"We don't rightly know, Aunt Prim."  Seredic explained, his voice subdued and anxious as he answered her question.  Primula reached for Frodo and Seredic gratefully passed the child into her arms.  "Milo saw him fall out of one of those old oaks by the High Hay - not more than 10 minutes ago - but we don't know why or how bad he is hurt."  Seredic held up his right hand guiltily; it was still covered with blood.  "He's got a cut on the back of his head too, and what felt like the beginnings of heck of a lump, and his arm's broken, I'm sure."  Primula stared at the smear of blood that spread from the neck of Seredic's waistcoat across his bare shoulder.  That was her son's blood.  The icy knot of fear stabbed at her again and she felt her heart stumble.  Death would not take this one too.  She could not let it.  She took her son's still screaming, rigid body and settled him protectively against her breast.  He responded at last.  With a soft sigh, he gave up his cries and relaxed.  His eyes were half open as he curled against her but closed even as she watched.  He was badly hurt but he knew her and welcomed her embrace.  Primula desperately grabbed at that small sign.  He knew her.  It gave her hope - something she sorely needed right now.  Frodo's uninjured arm curled around her waist and he clung to her tightly.

He was being moved.  Other hands held him and cradled him close to a warm, soft bosom.  Mother!  He could smell her curious musky scent - part chamomile, part lye soap and sunshine, part mysterious warm earth - finally she held him close and he felt his fears fade.  He cried once more, but softly and sank against her body, grateful for safety at last. 

 "We doctored his arm as best we could," Seredic gestured towards the splint and his own shirtless state, "But I'm no healer." 

Primula pulled her apron up like a sling and tucked it around Frodo's small body.  "I'm no healer either but we must find one, and quick!"  She looked down at his small pale face where it lay in the crook of her arm.  His brow was still creased, as if in pain, but the tenseness was slowly leaving his body.  Bit by bit he was easing his grip, loosening his hold on her and on his own consciousness.  She denied the debilitating panic that rose in her.  He knew her.  He would be all right if she got him to the healer.  What she needed was cool efficiency.  Her son was endangered.  This was no time to lose her head. 

"We sent Darroc for a healer before we started back," Milo offered.  "And Marmadas to get Drogo."  Primula nodded to him and turned on her heel heading back to the Hall as fast as she could walk.  The boys jogged behind her.

"I told Darroc to find Daisy Burrows, if he can, Aunt Prim," said Seredic. "Rather than old Doc Clearwater.  I…I hope that was right?"  At Primula's brisk nod, Seredic smiled gratefully.  "I know you like her and she's ever so much better with the children - but there are some I know who'd want the Doc anyway, him being a learned gentleman and all."

Primula quickened her pace. "Doc Clearwater's been treating Brandybucks for fifty years," she said.  "But I agree with you.  Daisy is better with children,… and Doc Clearwater can be… a bit old fashioned."  She hiked up her grip on her child.  Frodo was dead weight now, his un-splinted arm hanging loose and slapping her side was she strode.  She held onto him desperately and tried not to think what his unresponsiveness might mean.  "I think you did right by asking for her, Seredic."

The pain did not go away even with the comfort of the warm flesh against his cheek.  He was safe but not whole.  He wondered what might be wrong with him, but even forming these thoughts caused agony, so he abandoned the effort.  What he knew was that the arms around him meant comfort and the gentle rocking movement would lead to a place of warmth and security.  It did not matter how he knew either of these things.  A yawning darkness was filling the space around his mind but in it he felt a taste of relief.  It was the first thing that had eased the dreadful pain even a little.  He reached for it gratefully….

TBC

Chapter 5 - Healer

Daisy Burrows had been the midwife of Buckland for the past 12 years. 

On the night of her daughter's birth, as she'd strained to deliver her first child, she'd decided that someone needed to care for the ladies of Buckland, and that she was the hobbit for that task, for they were certainly not getting the care they needed from anyone else. 

Daisy's water had broken almost a day before and still the labor pressed on, but it wasn't until she felt two infant feet emerging from the birth canal that Daisy had known she was in trouble.  The child was coming in the most wrong way imaginable.  It would take real skill to insure the baby both survived and was whole and she knew neither she nor the ladies attending her had it.  The only medical practitioner in the area, Doctor Albarus Clearwater, had been sent for at once.  It was well known the doctor hated being called to births, feeling that they were more a matter for the ladies than for a learned hobbit like himself, but he was the nearest, and time was pressing. 

As the day had dragged on and the doctor had not come, Daisy had grown tired and uneasy.  The child was not moving and Daisy was sick with fear that it was already dead.  At last, heeding some call she hadn't understood, Daisy stood and let gravity help her.  The ladies had held her arms and, hanging limply on them, she had pushed with her last strength.  The neighbor, kneeling by her side, had eased the child out, taking the feet forward and allowing the baby to fall into her outstretched hands instead of pulling.  Thankfully, it had worked.  Though the little girl was worn out and needed to be revived, she was alive, and as it turned out, unharmed by the traumatic birth.  When Doc Clearwater finally made it to the Burrows' home, several hours late and no longer needed, Daisy had lit into him as fiercely as her trembling body would allow.  The doctor had been incensed and had pointed out that the child was alive and healthy, confirming that he had been right all along.  Ladies knew birthing and it was best left to them.  He'd packed up his bag and left while Daisy had continued to give him a piece of her mind to chew on. 

In the years that followed, Daisy built up a fine reputation for herself, and though the Brandybucks still used the old Doc for everything but birthing, Daisy had quite a following among the lesser families of Buckland.  She studied the art of healing under the ancient Mame Twofoot of Stock, who had learned the trade from Daffydyl Banks, a scandalous hobbit lass who had reportedly run off with a wizard in her youth and had learned the skill from some great elvish lord she'd met in her travels.  Mame had been so impressed with Daisy's ability, her empathetic touch and kindness that she had taken the young hobbit lass on as her apprentice and taught her all she knew.  It was Daisy's compassion people took to, and her soothing touch was sometimes more healing than any medicine she could offer.  There were some folk who preferred the tried and true, staid and knowledgeable Doctor Clearwater to cure their ills, but for those who wanted a sweet word and someone to stay by their bedside as a comfort, there was no one better than Daisy Burrows.

Past the Hall lay the brushy outskirts of Buckleberry.  Little farms dotted the climbing hill and their fields fell away in front of them like aprons of dark earth and green.  All was quaint and quiet, well ordered and tidy.  It felt almost surreal to Darroc, considering his errand.  How could such horrible things happen in a world that seemed so at peace? 

Daisy lived up the hill in a comfortable hole on the side of the town near the Hall.  When he reached her home, puffing and disheveled, she was spinning thread on a drop spindle and sitting in the shade of an old apple tree that leaned well past her fence.  It didn't seem to bother her that the tree's largest limb looked as if it was ready to drop on her at any second, nor did it phase the energetic girl child who clambered about upon it and turned to study Darroc with eyes the same color as the sunlit leaves.  

Breathlessly, Darroc stumbled over himself to explain the situation that had brought him.  Daisy listened and went back into her hole to quickly pack her bag.  She paused only long enough to send little Mae running to the neighbor's house, the place she was usually sent when emergencies took her mother away from home before her father returned from the tobacco fields.  Daisy didn't bother to waste time catching and harnessing the pony but followed Darroc on foot across the fields back to Brandy Hall.

 ~*~

Primula entered Brandy Hall's sprawling hill by the north entrance and led the anxious boys through a warren of smials to the quarters she used when the family stayed there.  Her drawing room, the one she'd had as a girl, was spacious and several round tunnels led off of it.  She went straight to Frodo's chamber, little more than an alcove close to the side of the hill, and laid her unconscious son upon his bed.  Frodo's was one of the few rooms in their apartments with a window to the outside.  Primula was glad they would have the light from it to see by.

"Seredic, thank you, for what you've done, but could you do one thing more for me?" she asked.  When he nodded vigorously, she continued.  "Find Aunt Menegilda, please?  I… I could use her help."  She tried to smile but it was such an obviously false effort, Seredic felt embarrassed for her and turned away.

"Of course, Auntie," he replied and chucked Milo in the shoulder.  "Why don't you wait outside for the healer, Milo?  You can show them in when they get here."  Both boys were eager to be of use but neither wanted to see their young aunt in grief over her son.  They departed without any more urging to their appointed tasks. 

Primula turned the minute the door closed and sank onto the bed beside her child.  Fear returned in an overwhelming surge that threatened to drown her completely.  While the boys were with her she had held it at bay, but now it returned to assault her tenfold.  She could still feel Frodo going limp in her arms and the dreadful sinking sensation that clenched at her heart as she relived the moment caused her to shake with terror.  This could not be happening.  She laid a hand against his pale neck and when the movement of a pulse met her fingertips she almost swooned with relief.  He was alive.  He had not died in her arms, as she had feared.  The iron bands of panic loosened slightly around her chest.  She whispered a murmur of thanks and stroked his jaw line with her trembling thumb.  He stirred a little in response to her touch, his lips working slowly, as if he were trying to speak but no sound but the sighing whisper of his breath came forth.  Frodo's eyes were closed and his straight, dark lashes lay in stark contrast to his pale cheeks.  Dried blood was caked below his nose and across his cheek, and the swelling over his eye was growing.  Primula blew out a breath to steady herself and picked up the cloth by his washstand.  The water from the pitcher was room temperature, but she did not think she could force herself from his side to warm it.  It would have to do.  She needed to get Frodo cleaned up so that the healer could determine how badly off he was. 

He moaned when the wet cloth touched his face but did not turn away and Primula thought that was a good sign.  If he could scream then he could live, or so she told herself, and that assertion was the only thing that kept her from being swallowed by terror again.  Cleaning his face caused the cut above his eye to reopen, spilling fresh red blood over the darkening bruise, but if it pained him, he gave no sign.  She wiped his nose and lips free of dried blood, and began to attend to the scratches.  As she worked her panic struggled to return.  He was becoming less and less responsive even as she tended him.  Primula tried to quell her fears with logic.  It was a bad blow - of course he would be unconscious so soon after it - he just needed rest.  She felt a sudden desire to shake her son awake but repressed the urge and touched his softly rounded cheek instead.

"Sweeting," she whispered.  "I'm going to undress you and ready you for bed.  Do you understand?"  Frodo made no movement at all in answer and Primula bit her lip to quench her fear.  "All right then, let me know if I hurt you."  She removed his tiny waistcoat, pulling the slim unbroken arm from the garment first and then carefully maneuvering around the splinted one.  It was the same material as one of his father's - Primula had made them both for her beloved Baggins gentlehobbits.  A matched set for her two princes.  She set the garment aside and carefully slipped his left arm out of his shirt.  The right was still bound up under the splint and she dared not take that off yet.  Her fingers shook but they moved with practiced surety through the familiar task of undressing her child for bed.  These were the motions every mother knew, only…  Even after nights of storytelling and merriment when she had carried him sleeping from the Great Hall and settled him, drowsy, into his bed, he had never been quite so…still.  Something was very wrong with her beautiful child.  A sudden image came into Primula's mind, of a tiny, pale hand that lay horribly and unnaturally motionless in her own.  Frodo was becoming as limp and unresponsive as she had been.  Primula's heart gave an agonizing twist.

"Oh, my darling babe," she sobbed in sudden agony.  "Please, I can't lose you too… I can't…"  The tears she'd held back flooded her eyes and she laid her head on his small chest.  She couldn't let the grief overwhelm her again, there wasn't the space for it, but she couldn't stop the tears.  They fell on his pale skin, but he was not moved by them.

There was a firm knock on the door.  Primula bolted upright and dashed her eyes clear.  She pulled the comforter up over Frodo and hastened to the door, pausing only for one last swipe at her tear moistened cheeks.  Daisy Burrows stood outside, breathless and red faced from her sprint.  Primula had never seen a more welcome sight in her life.

"PLEASE come in!" she said, her voice only breaking into a sob at the end of the phrase.  Milo, hearing it, stepped back and allowed the healer to enter.  He waited for a moment seeking either acknowledgement or release and was relieved when the healer touched his arm in passing.  He had done the job expected and wanted nothing more than to get away from this place of hurt and sorrow.  Now that Frodo's care was in the proper hands, both he and Darroc, left panting at the Hall's entry, would need an ale or two. 

Daisy wasted time for no more than a tense nod in greeting and deposited her enormous bag on a chair next to Frodo's bed.  She sat beside the child and touched his hand below the splint. 

"This was well done," she murmured absently, tapping the binding, but her attention had already drifted to the child's head.  She waved Primula closer and bade her to move the window curtains back a bit more.  Primula hurriedly did so and the healer opened one of Frodo's eyes.  The right was not swollen and the blue of its iris shone bright in the diffuse light.  Daisy shaded the eye with her other hand and after a moment, took it away so that the light fell suddenly on the child's face.  She studied him intently but Primula could not see any notable reaction to her actions.  Daisy opened his other eye, a more difficult chore because of the swelling, and repeated the procedure.

"What are you doing?" Primula asked softly.  She liked Daisy, but her mother, Mirabella, had always insisted upon having Doc Clearwater tend her for anything and Menegilda, self-proclaimed matron of the Brandybucks also preferred him.  Primula herself had never been seen by anyone else with the exception of her last labor and she had never seen the old doctor performing this strange ritual.

"Trying to see how bad off this child is."  Daisy was feeling Frodo's skull with her fingertips, exploring the great bump on the back of his head.  The blood was drying and did not come off on the healer's hands, but Daisy could see from the stiffened locks that there had been a great deal of it.  "Was he conscious at all?" Daisy asked before Primula's panic could rise again.

"He was screaming when they brought him to me," Primula answered.  "But I held him close and he settled right down.  I thought he was just going to sleep but he went limp so fast… "  She shuddered.  "He came around just a bit when I bathed him, but he fell asleep again before I'd finished."  She was fishing for reassurances, but Daisy didn't seem to have many to give.

The midwife was looking at Frodo's face appraisingly.  "I see.  Hmmm.  Primula?  We will need water and cloths.  And would you set some to boiling so I can clean my equipment?"

Primula nodded numbly but before she could move to respond, the entry door was thrown open.  Drogo Baggins's sturdy bulk filled the opening.  He was a large hobbit, as tall and well filled out as Primula was slender and he had an aristocratically handsome face that, at the moment, was wrung with grief.  His clothes were carefully tailored and spoke more of quality than ostentation but they were not new, and a careful eye could see they had been lovingly mended.  His warm brown eyes searched the room frantically until he found Daisy and his wife in Frodo's alcove.  He strode to them with a grace that belied his size and gathered his wife to his chest.  They embraced for a moment, conforming to each other's bodies with the familiarity of long habit, and Drogo reached down to touch his boy.

"Will he be alright?" he asked tightly. 

"I've just gotten here myself, Mr.  Baggins, so I can't tell much yet," Daisy smiled as kindly as she knew how.  "But I was just asking your wife if she could get me some water - and towels.  He's got a cut on the back of his head that will need stitching, and I need to clean him up so I can make sure there's nothing else he needs."

Drogo nodded, but his face grew paler as he gazed at his motionless son.  He called out to the hall.  "Marmadas!?"  The boy who had fetched him peeked in through the door, his hat in his hands. 

"Yes, sir?"

"Water from the spring, now.  As much as you can carry.  There'll be coin in it if you are quick."  Drogo had grown up a gentlehobbit used to servants and sometimes forgot his relatives were not accustomed to being addressed that way.  Still, it got his point across and swiftly.  Marmadas darted deeper into the hall to comply. 

"Whatever else he needs?" Primula asked, feeling a bit braver and comforted now that her husband was by her side.  "Please, I… know it sounds impertinent of me, but I need to know….  Will you tell us what you have found?  How badly hurt is our son?  What do you plan to do?  I…I must know the truth."  Though Primula trusted Daisy, and would be eternally grateful to her help at Frodo's birth, she didn't know her well and wasn't sure how she would respond to someone questioning her medical practices.  Primula's own experiences with Doc Clearwater suggested that healers heartily disliked such brazen behavior. 

The healer took the cloth Primula had used earlier and wet it again.  "I make it a practice to tell my patients the truth," she murmured but did not sound offended at all.  "Although sometimes it isn't pleasant to hear."  Primula nodded and Drogo paled a bit more.  He tightened his grip on his wife.  "Very well," Daisy continued.  She sat down, raised Frodo's head and placed the folded wet washcloth under it.  "His one pupil's dilated just a bit and sluggish to respond to light.  That generally means trouble."  She gave them a look but decided not to add that that was something of an understatement.  "I suspect that since he was awake earlier and has since lost consciousness there is something going on in his head that's not good."  Primula drew a sharp breath but Daisy continued.  "I hope that it's just the muscles on the outside of his skull that are bruised and bleeding, but the stuff inside might be also."  Daisy shook her head, her frown deepening.  "I'm worried he might be bleeding under the bones."

"Is that bad?" Drogo asked.  He didn't like the tone of her voice, nor the way his wife's body trembled hearing it. 

"It could kill him," Daisy replied softly. 

Though the words were gently spoken, they fell like hammers of terror on Primula's heart.  She'd let her iron guard down when Drogo came, trusting his strength and will to be her anchor but by doing so, Daisy's grim words, echoing Primula's worst and most expected fear, were able to assail her unguarded.  She felt the swirl of despair, like the muddy waters of the flooding Brandywine, rise up again and threaten to engulf her.  Her eyes misted and she felt herself sagging against Drogo's chest.  Daisy's next words sounded as if they came from miles away.  "But there's a few things I can do, please don't despair!  There's the fact that Frodo is as young as he is.  He's what, 8?"  Primula blinked and caught the hopeful, encouraging look the midwife gave her.  As she struggled to master herself she realized that the question had been asked not for information, but to bring her out of her daze, to get her mind working again.  Daisy knew how old Frodo was; she had delivered him herself.

"He'll be 8 this year, yes…" Primula whispered numbly. 

"That's actually a blessing," Daisy continued.  "At his age, the bones of the skull are just knitting together but they aren't quite there yet.  This means there is still a bit of give and slack, some space for the pressure to be released into if it gets too high.  Of course, it all depends on how bad a blow he took."

"I see," Drogo nodded.  He wasn't sure he really did, but realized somehow that the information and talk reassured his wife, and that was what was important to him.  He had not missed her near faint - and was barely containing the panic rising in his own throat, but Primula seemed to be steadying.  He realized with a flush of gratitude that the healer had kept her focused by talking, by giving them information and options and by treating them with respect.  Drogo was suddenly very glad Ms.  Burrows was tending his son.  Primula especially would need her gentle hand to keep her whole should the unthinkable happen.  She had not had that the last time…

"What are you going to do then?" Primula asked, desperately latching onto Daisy's kind, logical voice.

"Watch and wait," Daisy replied with a soft smile.  "I will clean and stitch the cut, and set that arm proper, but we need to keep a close eye on him for the next few hours.  If he's got pressure on his brain, it'll show and I can decide on a course then.  For now, we keep him calm and quiet."  As she said this, she checked the condition of the towel she'd placed under Frodo's head.  There was no fresh blood on it. 

"But what will you do if he does have pressure?" Drogo's voice sounded steadier and less confused than he felt.

Daisy looked up at him and the lines of worry on her face deepened.  "Let's hope he doesn't," she whispered.  She gently turned Frodo's head to the side so that she could see the large bump she had felt.  The hair was matted but the wet towel had softened the drying blood and Daisy could feel the skull much more easily.  She pushed the dark locks aside and pressed her fingers gently over the entire area.  "Good thing is there are no breaks… nothing dented in…" she murmured.  "Though if he's just cracked his skull, I wouldn't be able to tell."  Primula swayed slightly but was instantly supported by her husband.  Daisy grimaced, wondering if the child's mother was indeed as prepared for the truth as she had stated. 

Primula had taken the death of her first child very hard and had placed every remaining ounce of her hope and strength into her son.  Daisy remembered the way Primula had held him when she had first laid the newborn babe in his mother's arms; as if she drew her very life's breath from his pink-faced cries.  If they lost Frodo this night, Daisy suspected his mother would not be long to follow him.  Daisy pulled the towel from under his head, and wiped at the cut over his eye.  That too had finally stopped bleeding but it left a gap in the dark line of his gently sweeping brow.  The child still showed few signs of awareness.  His skin was getting paler and was developing a slight sheen as of clammy sweat.  He was still hurting, though too deeply unconscious to physically react to her touch.  Daisy felt his pulse again and her frown deepened.  "Mistress Primula?  Can you get me some more pillows?  I'd like to raise his head a bit more.  I've got some teas I'd like to see if we can give him to ease the pain but I don't want to give him anything until it looks like he'll come 'round."

After a moment's hesitation, Primula detached from Drogo's side and went out into the great room.  She moved like one in shock, stiffly and without thought, but she brought the pillows back in short order and Daisy eased the child up to settle them under his head and shoulders. 

"Elevation will help," she muttered.  "Keeps blood from rushing to his head."  She laid him back and took a quick look in his eyes again.  Frodo's right eye was more dilated than before and this time, when Daisy let the dimmed light of the room fall on his face, the iris was even slower to close.  Her throat tightened in anguish.  It was her worst fear realized.  Blood was building up on his brain, squeezing the sensitive tissues.  If she did not act quickly, he would die.

TBC

Chapter 5 - Guilt

Dody's anger and feelings of self-pity were easing.  It was impossible for a hobbit, even one of dour nature, to keep such dark thoughts in his heart for long.  Instead, the feelings settled around his mind becoming a dull ache - a pain - that joined with the multitude of hurts he'd had to endure these past few years.  Perhaps it was his age; the early tweens were a bad time for hobbits, full of moods and dark thoughts, self-doubt and insecurity.  All hobbit lads and lasses found the age a trial but for Dody, having experienced so much heartache in his short life, it was worse.  He knew he brought much of his grief upon himself.  It was his nature, he supposed.  Stupidity, recklessness or stubborn pride always seemed to make him say just a little too much or do just a little bit more than he ought.  'Self destructive' his uncle Rory called him.  It was as if Dody held inside him a monster that hated everything; a beast whose sole aim was to torment him, sabotaging friendships and family ties and stealing the warmth of companionship that, despite obstinate denial, he ached for. 

His eyes stung again but he blinked furiously and beat his hand on the dewy grass.  What good was self-pity?  What use were tears?  There was no one left in his world to be touched by them.  Only his mother had ever cared enough to try and soothe his raging temper.  Dody did not know if she could see him from beyond the grave but he hoped she could not.  It would have broken her heart to see what he had become.  He closed his eyes and drew in a hitching breath.  She would have taken his face in her hands, brushed back the unruly curls and looked deep into his heart.  His entire world was once mirrored in her eyes but what would he see if he could gaze into them today?  He knew he would have seen disappointment.  Tears brimmed beneath his closed lids.  He rubbed his eyes quickly.  Even if his memory of her was all that remained in the living world, he would not cause it pain.  He could not bear to even imagine her sorrow.  He would swallow all his tears to keep her from seeing what a wretch he had become. 

Dody stared up at the crystal blue morning sky.  It winked happily from above the gently shifting gaps in the tree's canopy.  Such a jolly sight… on such a miserable morning.  He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. 

Far above him, in the tiptop of the tree, the sun glinted on something of surpassing brilliance.  Dody stared at the sparkle of it and gasped.  The necklace!  It had caught on a broken tree branch!  They would never have found it by searching the forest floor.  It glittered in the bright morning, adding an unquenchable cheer to the sunlit sky.  Dody studied it in wonder, his sullen moping temporarily forgotten, and again marveled at the lovely thing.  Uncle Bilbo had given it to his mother on her wedding day.  It was a sumptuous gift and tongues had wagged about it for years.  Old cracked Bilbo Baggins giving a gift worth a king's ransom to Lacy Broadbent?  Most found it hard to believe he would give such a thing just for fondness' sake, but Lacy always demurely denied there was anything between them but friendship.  Nevertheless, even Dody had to admit, she held the piece dearer than anything his father had given her. 

As Dody gazed upwards he found himself idly plotting a route along the branches.  He could reach it if he was careful.  A step where the main stem forked, and then shinny along the branch till he could reach the tip of the broken one.  There was another branch higher up but it was too narrow to hold his weight and there was nothing beside it to hold onto.  One missed step on that high limb and he would fall to…

Just as the thought came to him, a sinking chill stopped Dody's heart.  One missed step on that high limb and he would fall to his death!  The necklace was in the treetop from Dody's own cast.  Frodo had to have seen it.  He had probably been doing exactly what Dody was contemplating, climbing up for it, when he fell.  Cold terror filled Dody's belly as the realization grew.  He swayed against the tree. 

Was he to blame for the nearly fatal injury of a child?  A child that was his own kin!

The sudden guilt strangled him and crushed the air from his chest.  An image of his cousin lying still, pale and bleeding at the foot of the tree came back to his mind with cruel clarity.  It had to be so.  What if he had killed the child?  He squeezed his eyes tightly shut.  No!  How COULD he have?  Revulsion made him feel positively sick.  His other cousins' beating now seemed justified - even kindly.  What might they have done if they'd known he was to blame for the fall?  What if Frodo woke and told them?  What if he never woke at all?  Oh what had he done?!  Dody dug the heels of his hands deep into his eyes as if to block out the image of the bloodied child.  How could he ever put this right?  What Frodo had seen or heard hardly seemed important in the light of this discovery but Dody's mind was racing, panicked.  What if Frodo DID tell them he was to blame for his fall? 

A surge of self-loathing rose up to engulf him.  It was so black and foul he would have plunged a knife into his own heart rather than let his twisted mind continue on this course.  Worrying about whether or not Frodo would tell them why he'd fallen!  He should have been hoping his young cousin would be able to speak after this ordeal rather than plotting the protection of his own worthless hide.  The others should have beaten him to death rather than just punching him.  Dody nodded violently in his misery.  Yes, that would have killed the beast that lived inside him.  Kin-killer… murderer of children.  Death would have ended this outrage and spared him this twisting guilt. 

A raw, guttural cry built in his throat and he took up fistfuls of his own hair.  He hated himself at that moment more than he ever had before.  How could he even think about posturing to protect himself?  First theft, now a careless, selfish act that might have caused the death of his cousin.  He was not only cruel but a danger to his kin.  He should have cast himself into the river instead of threatening to do so with the necklace.  There he could drown his agony and hide his hated body under cold, rolling waves of brown.  How could he have done such a hateful thing? 

His breath came in great heaving gasps as self loathing washed over him.  He couldn't drive the image of little Frodo's pale, bruised face from his mind.  He was positive the child had fallen for the exact reason he surmised.  It was too much coincidence not to be true.  Frodo was injured, possibly dead because of Dody's crime, Dody's evil.  Trembling, he stood… and wavered, pale-faced and haunted.  What was he to do?  How could he possibly make this right?  He wanted to die… yes, he DID want to cast himself into the river.  No more pain, no more guilt.  He might join with his mother then.  But what would SHE say to him now?  By his selfishness and cruelty he had harmed the most innocent creature he knew, a bright child whose future had been filled with promise.  If jealousy had colored Dody's feelings about Frodo, it had not kept him from understanding the boy was the last person in Brandy Hall who deserved to suffer from Dody’s thoughtlessness.  He had to make this right no matter what happened to him.  Casting himself into the river would be the coward's way out.  It would fix nothing and the guilt would still be there.  No, he had to right this horrible wrong and he needed to be alive to do it.  After that, he didn't care what happened.

With a self-loathing that was almost pain, Dody jumped to grasp the lowest branch.  He swung up, and crawled to the top of the dark grey arch.  His eyes were watering making it difficult to see, but he dashed them away, furious with himself.  He did not deserve his own tears.  This was something he simply must do regardless of what hurt he took from it.  Perhaps he would gift the treasure to Frodo… or say that the child had found it… or somehow slip it into his pocket… or something.  The necklace dangled above him, hanging in an open space at the very edge of the tree's crown.  Dody scrambled up the trunk, welcoming the cruel scratch of the tough bark on his bared arms and calves as due and just punishment.  It was difficult to climb but any reluctance or instinct for self-preservation he might have felt died instantly in his heart. 

The necklace was higher than he had guessed and the branches that would hold him ran out long before he could reach it.  The gems sparkled teasingly at him, mocking his guilt and anger.  He cursed, hating himself for his uselessness as well.  He felt the frantic need to crush the vile life out of himself swell up again, but he pressed his forehead angrily, painfully against the tree trunk.  This would do no good.  He would have to return, with a saw perhaps, and cut the high branch out so that he would be able to reach the treasure.  He cast one last tortured, shameful glance up at the bauble and then slid recklessly down the tree.

TBC

Chapter 7 - Confrontations

There was a knock at the door of Drogo and Primula's lodgings and Marmadas Brandybuck peeked in.  Drogo urgently waved the boy to enter and moved to help him with the buckets he carried.  He set them by the stove and fished into his pocket for the coin he had promised.  Marmadas frowned, looking insulted, and glanced at Primula.

"I didn't do it for money, Mr.  Baggins," he said sullenly.  "Auntie Prim and you are family, and Frodo's my littlest cousin."  He shook his head.  "I'd've done anything I could to help him," he finished softly.  Drogo fumbled a bit, the color of his own embarrassment lifting his previously pallid complexion.

"We know, Marmadas," came Primula's dreamlike voice.

Daisy glanced sharply at her.  Primula was barely holding on.  From the look on her face and her tone, Daisy suspected her to be on the verge of a faint.  The last thing this situation needed was another patient to manage.  Frodo sighed, a softly pained sound, and shifted feebly on the bed.  Daisy laid a hand on his cheek to quiet and comfort him.  His increasingly meager movements seemed oddly slow, as if he were struggling to free himself from a pit of deep sand.  From the normally energetic youngster, the change was eerily distressing.  He was rapidly running out of time.

A commanding female voice, raised almost to the point of shrillness, and an answering baritone echoed from the hallway behind Marmadas.  The sounds were getting closer and when Primula looked up her dazed expression cleared a bit.  She recognized the voices.  A blur of rustling red and yellow petticoats burst into the room followed by an ominous looking gentlehobbit, a seemingly permanent scowl graven into his face and a dark leather bag in his hand.  Menegilda Brandybuck, matron of Brandy Hall, and her venerable physician, Albarus Clearwater, did not mix well with Drogo Baggins and Marmadas had seen enough of this volatile trio that he did not hesitate to make his escape. 

Drogo, though always well spoken and even-tempered, was nevertheless one of the very few hobbits willing to stand up to either the good doctor or his patroness.  Menegilda considered him impertinent.  The Bagginses were old money and gentrified, but their fortune was waning.  Menegilda saw his manners and bearing as 'putting on airs' when, considering his financial situation, none were warranted.  She firmly believed he had married into the Brandybucks for their money and that he wasn't nearly good enough for her favorite sister in law.  There was little love lost between the two of them.  Luckily, Rorimac, her husband was more tolerant, though it could have been that he admired anyone who would face up to his wife.

If the doctor had any feelings on Drogo Baggins' lack of obeisance, he kept them to himself.

"Prim, my dearest!"  Menegilda grasped her young sister in law to her ample bosom and stroked her dark curls to shush her as if she were a child.  Primula welcomed the embrace and turned her face into Menegilda's shoulder to hide the tears she could suddenly no longer contain.  Daisy had never met Menegilda officially, but knew who she was, as did everyone in Buckland.  She did, however, know the hobbit who had followed her in.  Doctor Albarus Clearwater also knew Daisy, and from the sudden crease in his forehead, it was obvious he was taking stock of what her being there might mean. 

"Oh, my sweet, I came the moment Seredic told me."  Menegilda turned her gaze to the bed and frowned worriedly over her unconscious nephew.  She did not even seem to see Daisy sitting beside him.  "I brought the doctor, my dear.  Don't you fret, we will soon have him right as rain."

Menegilda raised a hand to gesture Clearwater forward.  Daisy opened her mouth to protest, but Drogo responded first.  He stepped forward and placed himself squarely between the older healer and his child.  Doc Clearwater raised an eyebrow at him but looked more cunning than surprised.  Menegilda clung more tightly to Primula and scowled at her brother in law over his wife's shoulder.

"We have a doctor, Mene."  Drogo's smooth voice belied his disapproval. 

Clearwater stared at Drogo coldly, his almost black eyes penetrating but with no malice, only a calculating appraisal.  These two had faced each other down before, and though Drogo had nearly always gotten his way in the end, he had never walked away feeling victorious.  It was as if Clearwater was a myriad of deceptions, intrigue and twisted motives.  Drogo always had the feeling that whatever the doctor outwardly appeared to be striving for was directly counter to his true goal. 

Menegilda sputtered in outrage.  "You can't be serious!" she cried.  "My nephew is hurt and you need more than a midwife to care for him!  He's not a baby any more.  He needs a real doctor!"  She clutched at Primula possessively and glowered at Drogo, aghast that her word would be questioned.  Drogo was not moved but Primula looked up, horribly torn.  She looked from Menegilda to Drogo and back again, undecided and apparently unwilling to offend either party by taking a stance.  Daisy, knowing the state Primula was in, wondered when the poor lass would snap or collapse.

"We have the doctor we want, Mene," Drogo continued.  "Mr.  Clearwater will no longer be attending Bagginses in these halls.  He had his chance and I lost a child and nearly lost a wife.  I'll not risk either again." 

At Drogo's slight; not using the title 'Dr.', Clearwater's eyes did narrow.  The chill in his glance dropped several degrees.

"I can't believe you would jeopardize the health of a Brandybuck child," Menegilda sputtered angrily.  "Letting a half trained midwife tend him for something as serious as this!  Look at him!  He's as pale as those sheets!  You could kill him with your obstinacy!" 

Daisy's cheeks warmed with the insults, but she knew their source.  Doc Clearwater was too clever and sophisticated to have ever voiced such words himself, but Menegilda had no such reservations.  She thought very highly of Clearwater and would have believed anything he told her.

"His name is Frodo BAGGINS."  Drogo's voice was suddenly stern and more powerful than Daisy had yet heard him.  It cut through Menegilda's shrill, indignant tone and silenced the room.  "He is my son, and I say who he's tended by." 

Menegilda opened her mouth and shut it again.  He was within his rights and she knew it, though it was plain she was genuinely beside herself with worry.  She looked at Clearwater pointedly, as if to let him know this was not the end of it.  Drogo bristled and his cheeks warmed with fury.

"If I may be so bold," Daisy began, hoping to break the tension and defuse the impending conflict.  "Regardless of who tends this child, he needs help and quickly.  Perhaps if I could consult with Doctor Clearwater, then both of you would be satisfied the child was being given the best care he can be?"

Menegilda blinked and looked at Daisy as if she were amazed the hobbit lass was capable of even speaking, let alone being reasonable.  Daisy chose to ignore the additional insult.

"Well, yes," Drogo agreed hesitantly.  "If you are willing to talk with him, I've no objection, but I've chosen you - and I trust your judgment.  Not his."  

The strength of his conviction was clearly evident in Drogo's voice, and Daisy, though she didn't know him very well, was chilled to feel such immovable resolve coming from a hobbit who had always appeared to be jovial and complaisant.  She would never have guessed Drogo Baggins had such steel in him.

"I would be delighted to consult with your doctor," Clearwater replied.  Daisy thought she caught a hint of amusement in his voice, but it was so faint it could have been her imagination.  She chose to ignore that too, and stood, gesturing towards the door.  Clearwater inclined his head with a slight smile.  Mockery perhaps, but at least the crisis might be averted inside the small room.  Daisy squared her shoulders and went into the hallway with Doctor Clearwater close behind.

TBC

Chapter 8 – Voices in the Dark

Buckleberry was a hive of activity when Dody stumbled back to the hill.  Work had stopped in the fields as the hands tending the pipeweed plants gossiped excitedly among themselves.  It had to be about Frodo, Dody thought.  He caught the sad shaking of heads and the worried glances up towards Brandy Hall but was afraid to approach any of the field hands to hear what was said.  He was certain his guilt would show in his face and they would know he was to blame for the injury.  He had already condemned himself as much as he could bear; their censure would have broken him.  He thought about going to his family's farm shed to find a saw, but worry gnawed his mind.  Was the child dead already?  Sick fear filled his belly and he knew he had to find out how Frodo fared.  It would have been smarter to stay away from the center of the activity, to continue with his planned retrieval of the necklace, but he found he simply could not go on until he knew the condition of his cousin.

The front entrance to Brandy Hall stayed open on fine summer days, but a crowd of older hobbits usually lounged on the broad porch that edged the front garden.  That place would surely be busier than usual now, with gaffers and gammers gossiping over the incident.  Dody wasn't thinking of slipping in that way, but he hoped the increased activity would draw attention, and hobbits, away from some of the lesser-used entryways to the hall.  He crept up the hill to the north side of the main door and found a small entrance that was unattended.  He listened intently but after hearing no one behind it, he pulled the knob and peeked around the side of it.  Cool blackness greeted him but no sound.  They must be keeping onlookers away or perhaps this side entryway, used mainly by the hobbits quartered in that smial, was empty because its inhabitants were busy spreading gossip in the rest of the Hall.  Whatever the reason, Dody was grateful for their absence.  He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. 

It took a moment or two for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, but hobbit eyes are made for seeing in the dark and before long he could make out the passage.  This entry was fairly close to his Aunt Primula's rooms and Dody hoped he could sneak along the way and listen from outside the apartment to what transpired within.  It was risky, and he was trembling with fear, but he was desperate to know what had happened to Frodo.  Perhaps his young cousin was all right?  Had he spoken to anyone?  Was the necklace mentioned?  Self-serving thoughts rose, unbidden, to the forefront of his eager mind and Dody tasted bile in the back of his throat, hating himself for thinking them.  It would be GOOD news if Frodo recovered, he insisted to himself, and weighing the merits of any other outcome was unconscionable.  Still… Dody's devious mind worked feverishly, as if guilt and conscience were academic concepts that had already been accepted and set aside while it dealt with more pressing problems.  He found himself wondering what course of action he should take if the worst had happened.  What would he do if Frodo were dead?  He would still get the necklace, most certainly, and he would return it - that wasn't even a question any longer – and then? 

That was no question either.  Dody knew what he would do then.  His fettered morality screamed its discontent but his coldly terrified mind smothered its protests like the dousing of a candleflame.  He knew with utmost certainty what he would do.  If Frodo had indeed been killed, he would erase any hint of his involvement; return the necklace and do anything in his power to make certain no one ever found out that it was his actions, his folly that had killed his precious cousin.

Footsteps in the smial ahead.  Dody froze and sank against the wall.  They stopped a little way ahead just beyond a bend in the corridor and the sounds of two voices drifted towards him.

"Well, you have certainly ingratiated yourself, Ms.  Burrows," came the deep baritone of a male hobbit.

"I was called to attend the child, Doctor Clearwater.  What would you have me do?  Refuse?"  A clear female voice answered, a touch of irritation coloring it.  "I was at his birth, of course they would call me."  Dody recognized Doctor Clearwater, but the female voice was not familiar to him.  There was a healer in Buckleberry named Burrows, perhaps it was she who spoke?

"But clearly you can see he needs more than your simple skills can manage," the doctor replied.  "You must see reason and convince Mr. Baggins to let me take over his care." 

"I don't think that's wise, doctor.  You've seen the way the parents feel about you and I don't know about Drogo, but Primula is barely holding on.  Did you notice how she's breathing?  The stress is getting too much for her, mark my words.  If there'd been trouble in that room between us or between Mistress Brandybuck and Drogo, she'd have been overcome."

The doctor's voice was edged with disgust.  "Don't try to teach me medicine, girl.  I was practicing when you were but a whim by the riverbank*.  Of course I saw her.  Why do you think I agreed to meet with you out here?"

"Then you also should listen to what I found when I looked the boy," the healer's voice countered, her irritation matching the Doctor's.  "He's in trouble.  He's eyes are goin' wide and they aren't responding to light like they should.  And his breathing’s shallow and getting shallower.  You saw how pale he is.  He's responding to sounds a bit, but not nearly as well as I'd like to see and he's gotten worse just in the short time I've been looking after him."  She paused.  "If I don't do something fast, that boy will die, sure as anything."  Dody could hear her shifting around uncomfortably in the dark passage.  "Now, if you REALLY want to help them, you will do what I suggested and help me, not try and take over the case for your own benefit."

The doctor was silent for a long moment.  Dody longed to get away, but this discussion was exactly the information he had been hoping to get, and though it filled him with despair, he was rooted to the spot.

"He's bleeding on the brain then," the doctor said thoughtfully.  His tone was sad and resigned.  "Daisy, you may want me to take this case from you after all.  Drogo Baggins already blames me for the loss of one child; I doubt he could hate me more than he already does.  I know he seems a soft and kindly sort, but he's a force to be reckoned with.  I'd not wish his wroth on you."  The doctor paused again.  "Believe it or not, Daisy, I respect you as a midwife - and I am glad you are there to help with births.  I've not got the touch for it and I know it."  Another thoughtful silence.  "But you really should leave the real doctoring to those who've been trained for it."

"I've been trained more than you realize," came Daisy's quick answer.  "Mame Twofoot was my teacher in more than just midwifery.  She had books that were translations of the oldest texts I know, - elvish texts - and they were treasures of medical knowledge.  Mame Twofoot was a formidable doctor herself, and you know it.  She taught me well."

"Training is one thing, girl, but you've never handled anything like this."  The doctor's voice sounded cold, haughty and mocking.  "What do you really think you can do for the boy?  Would you bleed him?  Dose him with elderflower?  He's bleeding on his brain, child.  What do you realistically think you can do?"

There was a long silence then, and Dody wondered what was passing between the two healers.  Even from his hiding place he could feel the tension in the air.  Finally, Daisy spoke.  "I can make a hole," she replied softly.  Her voice was trembling though whether it was from disgust, wounded pride or fear, Dody could not tell.  "It would let the blood out and relieve the pressure.  It won't be pretty, but it should work."

The doctor scoffed, contempt again coloring his tone.  "It's called 'trepanning' - and it's as dangerous as leaving him lie.  Have you ever treated a head wound like that?"  There was a pause but Daisy Burrows did not answer.  "Uh… I thought not.  You wouldn't have been so quick to suggest it if you had."

"What would you do?" Daisy asked pointedly.  "As you said, if nothing is done, the boy will die.  What other option is there?"

For a moment it seemed that the doctor was at a loss for words, but his answer, when it came, chilled Dody.  Though the words were generous sounding, there was something in Clearwater's tone, something Dody almost doubted he heard, that reminded him of a cat toying idly with a doomed mouse.  He wondered if Daisy perceived the nuance herself.

"Trepanning carries its own hazards, girl," the doctor said.  "You have to be careful, VERY careful, that you don't disturb the tissues around the brain.  You must cut bone only and you must keep everything clean - boil your tools if you must, and wash the skin with distilled spirits before you start."

"I've done surgery before this, Albarus." Daisy replied dryly.

"But not THIS kind," the doctor shot back angrily.  "If you are not more careful than you've ever been you'll risk brain fever.  Have you ever cared for a patient with brain fever?"  In the brief silence, Dody imagined he saw the healer shake her head.  "No, of course not, but I have.  A patient can die of that too or they could live after the fever and that's even worse."  Dody could hear the soft brush of rich fabrics as the doctor moved.  His clothing sounded different than the homey stiffness of Daisy's petticoats.  "You may find you wished you'd let that boy die rather than put his family through something like that."

After another long silence, Daisy sighed.  "I can't just let him die, Albarus.  I have to do something.  If it kills him, then it kills him - but he's dead if I do nothing.  You know that.  If there's a chance, I must risk it."

What followed was another silence, but at last Doctor Clearwater spoke.  His words were gentle but there was a faint hint of triumph in them.  "Very well, child.  He is your patient.  You do what you see fit.  You've got the trust of the family and I hope it goes well for all your sakes.  If you can take some advice from someone who's done the surgery before, then listen well.  Keep the area clean.  Scrape the hair away from the place you'll make the hole, just like you would around a gash you'd stitch up and clean it with soap, water and spirits.  It must be perfectly clean, mind you, PERFECTLY.  And don't touch the spot with anything that's not been boiled clean first.  Even dressings.  When you cut, make sure you cut nothing but bone.  Nothing at all.  There's a thin layer of white skin-like stuff under the skullbone and you must be absolutely sure you don't even nick that.  Mind that… it's probably the most important thing to remember.  That layer keeps the brain safe.  Nick it, and you might as well smother the boy then.  I can't stress that fact enough."

"I'll mark it, Albarus."

"You do."  There was the sound of shifting feet in the dust and Dody, engrossed in the conversation, came back to himself with a start.  "We'll go speak to Drogo and Primula now.  If Drogo's of a mind, maybe he'd let me take Primula back to Menegilda's quarters for a lie down.  She's been my patient most of her life and she'll fare poorly if she's to watch you cut a hole in her boy's head."

"I agree.  She's going to need care too.  I can't think of a better physician for the job."

"Huh…"  Clearwater grunted somewhat unsympathetically.  Daisy's attempt at flattery did not seem to have impressed him.  "My dear, if you can pull this boy back and he's whole afterwards, I'd say you're more a miracle worker than physician."

Daisy muttered something under her breath, but at Clearwater's inquiry repeated herself louder.  "Luckier perhaps, doctor, but I've learned that sometimes luck and courage are all we have to trust.  Let us hope this boy has plenty of both."

"He'll need it," was all Clearwater replied.

At that, the two began walking back down the hall the way they had come.  Dody sagged to the floor, completely spent and trembling.  No, the nightmare was not over yet - nor did it sound as if things would end well.  The child was injured as badly as his worst fears had imagined.  His stomach churned with turmoil and his mind could not settle on one course of action.  Unbidden, a silky, cloying, despised voice whispered in his ear.

Frodo could still die… and then no one would ever know you had a hand in his fall. 

Dody shivered, feeling slightly nauseous.  Guilty hope crept into his heart but he hated himself for feeling it.  Had Frodo already been dead, he would have felt horrible but his way would have already been set.  With the boy alive, his path was less clear.  In the turmoil of his mind his conscience tried, again, desperately, to berate him.  How could he even secretly want the boy dead?  What kind of monster was he to take advantage of a child's demise?  How on earth could he live with himself knowing he had done so?

The theft was already known.  Darroc, Marmadas, Seredic and Milo would spread word of that soon enough, but Dody realized he no longer cared what they said.  He would almost welcome whatever punishments that act would mete.  There was some precedent for thievery in the ancient history of his race.  In the long forgotten past before they had settled in the Shire, hobbits had lived as vagabond wanders, surviving by what they could 'gather', but they had never killed their own kind.  Only the big folk did that.  It would be shameful to be thought of as a thief, but Dody couldn't even think how his people would treat a murderer.  Even imagining it made him weak with fear.  They might banish him, perhaps, but to where?  What family in the Shire would accept a hobbit whose careless selfishness had killed a child?  He shivered again.  No matter what the outcome, no one could ever know that his foolish crime had caused this calamity.  Gaining such a reputation would finish him more surely than even casting himself into the Brandywine.

His thoughts strayed to those muddy waters.  They would not shun him.  The river’s dispassionate surface would close over him and the fell little voice that whispered dark dreams in his ear would be silenced forever.  Dody felt the self-pity and melancholy well up inside him again, but with it came a sad weariness.  As just as such an end might have been, he suddenly realized he did not want to die.  Perhaps it was selfishness, or the certain knowledge that he would never have the strength of will to end his own life, but he desperately needed some other option. 

For now, all he could do was get the necklace.  He would say he found it on the forest floor just as Seredic suggested.  He would bring it back and hope to return it to Marietta's jewelry box before the gems were even missed.  Perhaps luck would be with him and the whole incident would be forgotten as concerns for Frodo spread through the Smial.  Perhaps his young cousin would not be able to tell the reason for his fall… some way or another.

He stood shakily and stumbled back towards the entry. 

Chapter 9 - Surgery

The world felt strange.  There was still pain, though he felt oddly detached from it.  He floated in a grey haze and could make out no words or even identify voices.  Sounds from outside his world were muffled and softened, fading in and out on waves he could almost feel.  His other senses seemed to be waning too.  Light was a grey blur, touch was as if through mounds of soft combed wool, and smell was… different.  It touched his mind but he could put no words to the scents to describe them.  His sense of smell told him what he needed to know without bothering his consciousness.  He was safe, it told him, in a familiar place andShe was near.  He could not tell if she still held him, for one moment the world moved with a hypnotic swelling roll, the next, it was still, but he felt no fear because she was there, watching, protecting, comforting.

The sounds increased in pitch though he could still not understand them.  She was moving away.  He wanted to cry out, to protest, to reach for her, but his body would not obey.  He could not move right.  His mind had forgotten how to speak to his limbs.  Fear returned.  She was gone and with her, safety and comfort.  He wanted desperately to make some sign, call her back, but he was trapped, blind, deaf and dumb within a body that would not listen to him.

After a while there was another voice, lower than the first.  A warm, smoky smell enveloped him.  Dada!  The word came to his mind but he could only remember that it meant something safe and warm that he liked very much.  A soothing voice filled the empty void and though Frodo could not tell what was being said, he was comforted.  A hand gently stroked his cheek.  The touch was familiar too but there was something strange in the way it caressed him.  He might have expected hugs and tickles, tousled hair and sound thumps on the back from this hand but to feel it touch him so tenderly was almost unsettling. 

Movement.  His world spun a little and the dull thud of pain intensified.  There was pressure… A new set of hands touched his face.  The light grew a bit and then was gone, then again, a brief brightening that faded swiftly.  Another smell, sharp and acrid, filled his senses with its bite.  It was the scent of sickness and fear, of pain and stinging, of hurts cleansed but with no sweet coolness of breath to ease them afterwards.  He whimpered, begging for the loving, protective arms to come back.  In their embrace, he had something to cling to, something that would protect him when the darkness swallowed him again.  He was so tired.  The shadow had lied.  There was no comfort to be found within.  It still hurt and there were dark, cruel things that waited there to smother him.  He was deathly afraid of it but it was stronger than he was.  If it took him again, it would keep him.  

*****************

Frodo was distressed.  Daisy could see it in the way his eyes slowly rolled under the swollen eyelids and in the way his mouth feebly worked.  His mother's cries had at least stirred him from his stupor - and that sign encouraged Daisy.  Drogo moved to his son's side and Daisy willingly gave him the chair.  His face was a mask, but Daisy could see how tense Drogo's body was.  After a moment he leaned over and started speaking softly in Frodo's ear.  His large hand cradled the child's tiny jaw and he absently stroked the line of it with his thumb.  Frodo quieted and Daisy caught snatches of Drogo's words.  He was describing a mist filled morning down by the river, promising his son that, if he were very good, they would go there when he was well and fish.  Daisy, trying not to listen to the simple, heartbreaking scene, took the opportunity to lie out her freshly cleaned tools.  Dr.  Clearwater had sent along his assistant, a cheery hobbit named Bob, to help Daisy with the surgery and she was trying to arrange the instruments so that he wouldn't have to search for what she needed.  Drogo's softly worded descriptions ran like bittersweet accompaniment to the clink of impersonal steel.  There was a tremble of fear in his voice though it was firmly suppressed.  He was trying to sound a lot stronger than he felt.  Daisy's heart clenched finally unable to keep from responding to the other hobbit's anguish.  What crueler nightmare could any parent face than this? 

Bob returned from an errand to obtain the last of the supplies they would need; an irrigation bottle and some tightly rolled white bandages and Daisy nodded to him that she was ready.  She hesitantly touched Drogo's shoulder.  He sighed, crumpling a bit, but stood back from the bed.  Frodo was quiet again but when she turned his face towards the light, his little nose wrinkled and a frown slowly crossed his features.  He was less reactive than before, but his movements told Daisy that at least there was still a mind to be saved behind the child's bruised face.  Bob set his burdens down and moved the lamp so Daisy would have as much light as possible for her work.  She peered again into Frodo's right eye.  The iris was still open more than it should have been.  His left was more difficult to see.  Below the cut eyebrow, the tissues around it had swollen almost too much to even force open, but she managed and noted that the iris of this eye was beginning to dilate as well.  She had to act quickly.

Daisy took up her knife and carefully whetted it.  It needed to be very sharp in order to shave the hair off right at skin level.  She turned Frodo's head gently to the side and pushed his soft curls away from the wound.  He whimpered forlornly in protest but had no power to resist her.

"I'm going to have to scrape a bit of his hair off, Mr.  Baggins," she explained as gently as she could.  "If I'm to stitch this up, I can't have hair getting into the wound.  I'll also need the skin shorn for the other procedure."

Drogo, standing grim faced and wooden at the stove, nodded.  He hadn't been too sure about the surgery Daisy described, but both she and Clearwater seemed agreed that Frodo needed it.  The pot of boiling water before him was empty; the evil looking metal tools it had contained now gleamed from a tray on the nightstand.  Drogo had been asked to lend a hand in cleaning them and had followed Daisy's instructions to the letter, glad to have something to focus on besides his injured son.  Though he had tried to hide it, he had never been so terrified in his life.  

The rest of the company, his wife, Menegilda and the doctor himself had left, but Drogo insisted that he be allowed to remain.  Frodo was his son, his only living child, and he would not leave the boy's side.  Primula had wanted to remain too and fought the removal bitterly but Drogo had to agree with both healers; she was in no condition to endure this trial.  Drogo's heart still ached remembering her desperate, heartbroken pleas.  Primula was in an even more fragile state than she had been after the stillbirth of their daughter.  At Drogo's insistence and while held in his arms, she had taken the sedative draught Clearwater provided.  It broke his heart to feel her droop unconscious against him but he knew it was for the best.  Though neither physician had actually come out and said it, Drogo was beginning to understand, from the looks they gave Frodo and their quiet urgency, how dire his son's condition was.  There was a very real chance Frodo would die from this injury.  Drogo had held Primula's sleeping form tightly while the doctor gave last minute advice and instructions to his assistant.  The scent of her dark hair pervaded his thoughts and gave him strength.  He loved his little family fiercely, and would stay by his son, come what may, but he understood how desperate this hour was.  They were doing everything in their power to save Frodo, but if the unthinkable did happen, he could not risk losing his wife as well.  She would be all he had left, and though the loss of two children would cleave his heart in two, losing Primula would finish him utterly.  

So, to save that which he held dearer than his own life, he had handed his beloved wife over to Clearwater and tried to steel his resolve as the doctor cradled her in his arms.  Menegilda, tight lipped and as anxious as any of them, spared Drogo a look that might have been empathy, before following him out, clucking comfortingly in Primula's unhearing ear.  It was for the best.  Primula was a strong lass, but the procedure Daisy and the doctor had carefully described to him would have been too much to put her through in her current state.  Cutting a hole in his boy's skull somehow didn't seem right, but Daisy had explained it all quite carefully and seemed sure this was the only course open to them.  Clearwater had agreed, which reassured Menegilda; and although he would never have admitted it, Drogo as well.

"You'll need to scrape quite a bit away," offered Bob.  "And you'd be best served cutting the surrounding hair short just to make things easier."  He had placed several bottles of alcohol within Daisy's reach.  She looked up at him and nodded.  She had never worked with a trained assistant before, usually relying on the help of relatives and grandmothers when delivering babies, but Bob was quick, handy and knew his business.  He seemed to sense what Daisy wanted before she'd even asked for it.  She could have gotten used to having him around.

When all was ready, Daisy began shaving the dark curls from the back of Frodo's head.  With each careful pass, the soft waves and blood-stiffened ringlets fell away revealing incredibly pale skin underlain by the odd shadow of un-emerged hair.  The wound itself was jagged and swollen.  Proud flesh made it difficult to shave right to the edge, but with Bob pulling the tattered tissues taunt, Daisy managed it.  Frodo quieted after the first gentle pass of the knife, though the healer wasn't sure if it was because he was sinking deeper into unconsciousness or if the gentle, gliding motion of her strokes calmed him.  In a basin of still steaming water, she carefully washed her hands and then washed his shorn head with a watered solution of distilled spirits.  Frodo didn't respond at all. 

She made a tiny incision at the edge of the existing cut and then widened the curving flap to see the faintly pink bone beneath.  She was relieved that the surface was smooth and unmarred - without even a crack, though she was aware that did not mean the boy was out of danger. 

Picking out a small saw-like knife from the tray, she began to carefully score a square no more than a half an inch across on the surface of the bone.  The living bone was hard, but not as hard as bone that had been boiled, or left to bleach in the sun.  Daisy knew that with the right tools and careful pressure, she could cut it safely.  Under the tutelage of Mame Twofoot, she had amputated limbs before, but this procedure was infinitely more delicate.  She pressed carefully, over and over her small lines and slowly the scores deepened.  Doctor Clearwater had given her an excellent suggestion - to scratch the side of her blade to the estimated thickness of the bone so that she did not inadvertently slice too deeply.  It was working.  Periodically, Bob would rinse the area with previously boiled water to sweep the tiny shavings of bone away, but other than the muted sounds of the operation, the apartment was silent and the air thick with tension.

Drogo hung back, both fascinated and horrified by what Daisy was doing to his son.  He could not see, but he could hear it.  The faint scritch scratch of a knife over bone - it sounded horrifyingly like the sound of whittling on hard wood.  Whittling his son's skull.  Drogo shuddered, and his fear turned suddenly to hot anger.  What had he been thinking, asking old Bethany to watch him?  She might have been Primula's own nanny but she was far too old now to keep an energetic young boy like Frodo under control.  Inside the quiet hall, on a day when everyone else was outside enjoying the sun, all the old nurse would have had to do was nod off for a moment and his son would have been away.  It was what he would have done at Frodo's age.  The old nurse was probably beside herself with guilt, but it wasn't her fault Frodo was now fighting for his life.  If it was anyone's, Drogo knew it was his own.  

Primula was always so protective of her son - unlike most hobbit mothers who were, as a rule, rather easy with their children - that Drogo had pressured her to let the boy go to play with the servants’ children.  There were few of his own age and station at Brandy Hall.  He'd thought it would do the boy good to get away.  He'd also considered that Primula herself needed to relax her hold.  He was 8 after all, and no fauntling* any longer.  Drogo had thought her over protectiveness unhealthy for both of them.  He had only been thinking of their welfare. 

He cringed, watching Frodo slowly frown as if in response to pain.  His son had always been so lively and quick, a blur of dark hair and energy.  To see him lying so unnaturally still, and moving clumsily when he moved at all…  The image struck him with painful poignancy.  This was entirely his fault.  He had been the one to insist Primula loose her hold.  His persistence and sentimental choice of nursemaid had lead to this tragedy.  Now he regretted ever coming between mother and son.  Perhaps Primula was right.  If he'd let her keep their son close as had become her custom, this tragedy might never have happened.

"That's it, Daisy," Bob said softly.  "You've got a lighter touch than the ol' Doc."  The assistant grinned but Daisy couldn't spare him a look to wonder about the comment.  The sawing was getting easier, and through her sensitive fingers, Daisy could feel she was nearly through.  She laid down her knife and reached for a small chisel.  With this, she carefully pried at the edge of her scoring.  It took a bit of convincing, but suddenly there was a moist cracking sound and the tiny square of bone lifted like the hinge of a box.  There was blood beneath the bone.  Daisy shivered but Bob, without even being asked, poured clean water on the area again.  When the solution ran clear, Daisy motioned her assistant to move the light closer.  There, beneath the bone, was the glossy sheen of an intact membrane.  There was no dark blood beneath it, merely convolutions of grey and white.  Daisy had not nicked the membrane.  Blood still seeped into the opening she had created, but now she knew it was not inside the brain itself, and that the bleeding was from somewhere between the brain and the skull.  She breathed a sigh of relief.  The child might not be out of the woods, but at least the operation had done what she'd intended.

"What is it?" asked Drogo breathlessly, not daring to hope at the meaning of Daisy's sigh.

"It's good, Mr.  Baggins.  I have relieved the pressure and now I simply need to stitch him up again.  He'll have a drain for a few days, but unless there are other complications, he's now got a better chance of survival."

Drogo let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and dashed the sudden tears from his eyes.  "Then, he'll be all right?!" he asked, hardly able to believe her words.  Daisy grimaced.

"Well, 'all right' is hard to say.  Let's leave it at 'I doubt he'll get any worse', shall we?"  She took up the needle and boiled thread and began to stitch while she talked.  "Head injuries are funny things," she began carefully.  "Sometimes a body can seem to recover completely, sometimes they don't recover at all...  and sometimes… well, it changes them.  I don't rightly know how it will be with your boy, sir, but we've done everything we can now, and that's a fact.  He'd have died for sure if we didn't do this - but… well,…" she sighed softly.  "The damage may have already been done."  She pulled the knot on the last stitch securing a small piece of hollow reed at the edge of the incision and looked up at Drogo as kindly as she could manage.  "I just don't know what he's going to be like yet… there's no way of knowing.  We can only wait and see and hope for the best." 

Drogo, too numb, spent and weary to even nod, watched as the two healers continued to tend his child.  They cut the rest of his hair short, leaving what had not been bloodied in a dark cloud on the floor.  Then they wrapped his head in bandages, carefully encircling and supporting the tiny softened reed drain so that it was not blocked.  They re-splinted his arm and bound it gently against his chest.  Frodo's bruised face looked so tiny amid that sea of white swathing but already his color seemed to be returning.  Drogo felt an intense weariness settle down upon his shoulders.  His son was alive… at least for now.  They had done all they could.  All they could.  Yes, he chided himself.  He most certainly had done all HE  could to facilitate this tragedy.  And if Frodo never recovered, or was damaged beyond repair, Drogo knew it would be his fault alone.

TBC

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A note on *-ed terms.

A faunt is a hobbit who has attained toddler age and is walking and talking, formally by his or her third birthday. A good friend and incredible author used this term in a story of hers and I found it so delightful that I just had to use it also. From "Letters..." - Letter #214 to reader A.C. Nunn, dating from late 1958 or early 1959.

Warnings: This fic is rated for graphic medical details, contains some violence (fights) and hints at darker themes, but contains no slash.  This chapter contains some references to sex between a married couple and is somewhat explicit in it's description, but I hope readers will understand why it is placed where it is.

Fear Chapter 10 - Family

Dody slunk to the side of the tool shed and glanced around.  His home was along the southern facing slope of the main hill that housed most of Brandy Hall.  It was a house, of sorts, built half into the hill and half out of it, and the main entry faced somewhat easterly.  A small garden, where the family vegetables were grown, wrapped from the front of the home up along the southern side.  No one was visible in the garden and one couldn't see the shed from any of the house's round windows.  Dody sighed with relief.  He had every right to be there; it was his father's shed, but he was not interested in answering any questions his family might ask.  The necklace's retrieval had to be quick and secret.  No one must ever find out where it was and how he got it back.  With any luck, he would even be able to return it to Marietta's jewelry box before it was missed.  He crept around the corner and opened the shed door.

"Boy!"

Dody's heart stumbled and he felt the liquid ice of panic chill him.  Even when guilt was not ripping his insides out, the sound of his father's voice was enough to bring his heart into his throat.  Dodinas was rarely pleased with him.  Even when Dody had done everything that was expected of him, his father could find something to criticize, something he had done wrong, some way in which he had failed.  He was so used to it that the criticism didn't even affect him anymore.  These days, it was the odd and unpredictable swings of temper he tried to avoid.  He did his chores quickly and efficiently, but it was never to curry favor or gain reward; it was to avoid Dodinas' specific attention.  That was the safest way to deal with his father; make yourself so unobtrusive that you escaped his notice.  One could never tell what mood the mercurial Dodinas would rise to once you brought yourself under his scrutiny. 

"What're you slinkin' about here for, boy?" the older hobbit called as he strode up the hill from the side garden.  Dodinas Brandybuck was a powerfully built hobbit, with thick, muscular forearms from which the sleeves were nearly always rolled up and an unruly mop of reddish curls that might have looked endearing had there not been a pair of cold, almost black eyes peering out from beneath them.  He must have been in the front of the smial, out of Dody's sight - either taking the air after luncheon or specifically waiting for his son's return.  Perhaps he already knew about the necklace's theft and had deduced that Dody was the likeliest culprit.  Perhaps he was just toying with his son before meting out what punishment he deemed such a theft merited.  Dody froze, unable to meet his father's scowl, but he warily observed Dodinas' body from the corner of his eye.  The boy's carefully schooled dispassionate expression hid neither his sudden pallor nor the tenseness of his muscles. 

"I've come for a saw," he said softly.  "Saradoc's got some apple trees he's wanting me to prune." 

The lie was undetectable, by tone or fact.  It had to be.  Dodinas frowned, his small, dark eyes darting over his son's features doubtfully.  Dody offered no outward sign of either spirit or deception.  Long years of terror and pain had taught him how to lie very well.  Finally, Dodinas huffed and turned away.

"You might show such industry to your own family's trees."  Dodinas scoffed, but the heat was going out of his voice. 

Dody maintained his carefully contrived submission as his father walked, faintly victorious, back to the smial.  Dody waited through a precisely judged pause before continuing into the shed.  He knew better than to seem too eager to be away from his father.  The saw was hung off a rafter and the boy's hand shook as he reached for it.  Dodinas did not know about the necklace.  From the way he acted, Dody was sure of that fact.  Marietta either hadn't noticed it yet, or perhaps she had finally gotten a taste of his father's true nature and was afraid to speak.  The second thought gave Dody a vicious thrill.  Dodinas had never been as cruel to his daughters as he was to Dody.  There was, perhaps, enough of Lacy's looks and manner in them to stay his hand, or it might have simply been that the older hobbit did not deem it proper to treat his lady-folk so.  Whichever were true, Dody's hatred of the usurper Marietta made him wish for once that some other creature besides himself knew some of the anguish that had been his life. 

He chose the most direct path back to the Hall, in full view of his home's small windows, and a stately, if resigned pace.  It wasn't until he had crossed the fold in the hill that he began to run down to the slope towards the river path.

***********************************

Drogo didn't recall how he got through the dark maze of Brandy Hall's tunnels to Rory and Menegilda Brandybuck's apartments.  The Master and Mistress's rooms were stately and in one of the brightest sections near the main hall.  Even the tunnels here had openings to let in the light.  In a daze he knocked on the round door and was admitted to the chambers by Menegilda’s maidservant. 

Doctor Clearwater still sat in the elegantly appointed parlor comforting Menegilda, who had apparently been crying.  Glass bottles of assorted colors sat on the low table before them and Menegilda clutched a rumpled and soggy handkerchief.  When she spied Drogo, some of her composure and detachment returned and she sat up in the richly upholstered chair. 

"She is still resting," the matron told him.  "And the doctor advises me that waking her for any further stresses would be decidedly unhealthy."  Her voice was high, nearly to cracking. 

Drogo could tell she was desperate to find out what news he might have brought but was too proud, or disdainful, to ask outright.  He briefly considered withholding tidings of his son's condition, but that would have been a petty gesture.  Drogo disliked her, but her concern was genuine.  Frodo was her nephew, after all, and despite the fact of his, to Menegilda's eyes, unfortunate parentage, she loved the child almost as dearly as her own.  Drogo sighed and ran a weary hand through his dark curls.  "Frodo lives," he assured them first.  "And it appears the surgery was successful - or so Daisy tells me.  Quite honestly, I didn't see much of what she did, I hadn't the stomach for it, but he was patched up and his color was returning when I left."

The doctor nodded gravely, all the while studying Drogo's face intently.  Drogo frowned, feeling oddly irritated at the examination and wondering if the Doctor didn't think he was telling the truth about the matter.  Menegilda remained erect and proud for a moment and then, turning away from Drogo, broke down and wept into her handkerchief. 

"There, there, Mistress," the old doctor assured her.  "This is the best of all possible news."  He put a comforting hand on her back and looked up at Drogo.  In a subtle instant, his manner changed from consolatory to subtly calculating.  "What did she tell you afterwards?" he asked.  His tone suggested he didn't expect to agree or approve of it. 

The younger hobbit bristled and at that the doctor looked faintly pleased.  Clearwater had the ability to irritate and unsettle him simply by his manner and Drogo realized, with irritation, that he had fallen for the bait again.  This was only a game Clearwater played.  The doctor was miserly with any emotion, friendship or despite, expending them only where they would give him advantage.  The fact that he used aggravating Drogo as no more than a passing amusement made it clear he found no benefit to either befriending or loathing the middle son of the poorest branch of the Baggins' family.  That was irksome in its own right.  Even being hated by the good doctor would have been less grating than being summarily dismissed. 

"Perhaps you should ask her yourself, doctor, as I am sure any answer you would desire would have been quite beyond my comprehension."  Drogo didn't curb the bite in his response.  He was in no mood to deal with this enigmatic hobbit.  "Now, if you will direct me to my wife and excuse me, I will leave you to your business."  He inclined his head cordially to the both of them.  Menegilda, still hiding behind her damp handkerchief, sniffed at him but that was apparently enough to let her maidservant know what was desired.  The young lass appeared at Drogo's elbow and directed him towards the spacious tunnel that led off of the sitting room. 

"If you would follow me, Mr.  Baggins?" she suggested sweetly.  Drogo did as he was bid, grateful to get away from what he perceived as hostile company. 

Brandy Hall was an old smial - far older and more 'lived in' than any of the dwellings of his own folk.  Though the Baggins' were a respected family, and wealthy enough for the most part, they weren't nearly as well to do as the Brandybucks were.  However, Drogo mused, though rich farmland and trade might have brought the larger family wealth, it had never settled propriety or the mantle of respectability on them.  Living on the edge of the wild was not what proper, sensible hobbits did.  They were a queer folk in Buckland, to be sure, and Drogo could never in his wildest imaginings have seen himself married to one of them. 

Primula was different than most of her clan.  In her, the fair Took features shone most seemingly.  She was slim, unlike Drogo, who was a properly filled out hobbit, and her eyes were as bright as stars.  Her hair was a dark mass of unruly curls that never managed to stay where she'd put them and her lips were the fine red of the ripest berries.  Drogo remembered the first time he had ever seen her.  It was at a Yule feast for his uncle Bungo.  She was a cousin of his aunt's, and in her bright green and gold dress, she stood out from the other hobbit lasses who milled around waiting to be asked to dance.  He had felt compelled to take her hand and pull her into the reel. 

Throughout the lively dance, he had had eyes only for her slim, graceful form as it darted and wove among the other dancers.  It stirred him to see her move.  Her white arms gleamed in the torchlight, her feet moved in perfect rhythm to the ebb and sway of the music, her gracefully curved back arched as she reached up to touch the unseen stars.  Even the way she wrapped her hands around her cup as they'd sat in the chilly garden sipping mulled wine had captivated him.  It wasn't as if she possessed a grace that surpassed that of the other lasses, nor was she fairer of voice than those around her, it was simply that HER movements, HER voice struck a chord deep within him that none had ever touched before.  He was smitten from the first, and through his patient persistence, had convinced her to let him court her.  My, but those were fine days!  Drogo had never in his life felt so alive as when he was courting Primula Brandybuck.  Days and nights traveling to Buckland, sleeping under the stars, dreaming of her dark hair and bright eyes glittering in the vast canopy above him.  The intoxication of those times would fill his soul forever.

"The doctor said he gave her quite a dose," the young maidservant was saying.  "She's sleeping still, but if you want I can bring some strong tea to help rouse her."

Drogo shook his head as the girl opened a richly varnished round door.  "She'll need sleep.  Best not to wake her.  I just need to see that she is all right."  The hobbit lass nodded and stepped aside to allow him to enter alone.

"Ring for me if you need anything," she added indicating the pull cord by the bed.  Brandy Hall was indeed provided with every amenity.  Drogo nodded tersely but did not spare the girl a glance.  He heard the door click shut behind him.

Primula lay on her side, covered with a light throw and sleeping peacefully.  Just the sight of his lovely wife moved him.  She was calm for the moment, at peace.  Drogo was glad of it.  No dark vision of her only son lying pale, bruised and motionless with blood streaming from his head would cloud her dreams.  Drogo wished he could rid his own mind of the grisly image.

It hadn't seemed too much to ask for: a wife and family.  Most who wanted them were granted the boon, but it wasn't until the birth and death of his first-born, that Drogo had realized how precious these things were. 

Primula hadn't had the heart to name the little lass, but Drogo had done so in secret.  'Primrose' he called her, and had held her as long as he'd been allowed.  She had looked more like him than Primula.  Her features coarser and plainer than might have been expected from the Tooks or Brandybucks, and her hair was a soft down of chestnut curls.  Drogo had stared into her tiny, quiescent face for as long as he could, memorizing every feature.  She had been born here in Brandy Hall and the folk who had attended the birth thought Drogo was very odd for dwelling so long on a dead child.  Perhaps he was, but he would not have traded those precious memories for anything he owned.  He lived in Brandy Hall, ate their food, stayed in their home, lived with one they considered their daughter more than his wife but in that tiny bundle was the one thing that was well and truly his.  Even if her tiny spirit had already passed the confines of this world, he could not yet part with what remained.  Primula could treasure the memory of this child kicking within her, but for Drogo, that all too brief meeting was the only part of her he would ever have. 

There was a sad ache that always pierced his heart when he thought of that lost child.  Rory called him a 'romantic' and scoffed at his melancholy, saying that such reflections were a waste of the time he could have put to better purpose; namely in the making of future children.  A wink and nod generally followed such advice and that always got the desired grin and chuckle.  The Master of Buckland treated him as well as Rory's father had and despite his uncouth manners, Drogo could not help but like him.  But Rory was a hobbit with a head for business and little else, who deemed matters of the heart a puzzling mystery.  How could Drogo explain to someone like him that the memory of that sweet Baggins babe was what made him treasure the family that was left to him?

Drogo sat beside Primula on the bed and stroked the dark curls from her face.  She was indeed deeply asleep, and dreamt on as he softly caressed her cheek.  That such loveliness was his astounded him.  After all these years, he could still look upon this delicate creature and be amazed that she stayed with him.  What talent could he possibly possess that could bind him to such an ethereal being?  She was too lovely to be believed.  Slowly he bent and placed a feather soft kiss on her lips.  She stirred slightly but did not wake.  She even tasted different than other hobbits.  Although their kind had always dwelt beneath the earth, on her was the essence of light like airy days in a sunlit meadow.  Drogo loved her so desperately it hurt. 

The pain of remembered loss and the stress of the past few hours came back to Drogo like a sudden, unexpected blow.  His daughter was long gone and now his son lay on a sickbed he might never come whole from.  Was it so much to ask for a family?  He lay down beside his wife and ached to take her into his arms.  Would this tragedy be too much for her to bear?  If Frodo, upon whose features Drogo's mark had been thinly spread, never recovered, would Primula, to whom the child was inextricably bound, die of a broken heart?  There were too many questions, too much at stake and Drogo's head swam with doubt. 

He needed something to hold onto in this maelstrom - one firm truth that would remain.  He needed to know in the depths of his soul that Primula at least was his and would be his no matter what else was lost.  He needed her like a green growing thing needs rain.  She was the only anchor left to him.  He longed to bury himself deep within her warm body, to feel her arch against him and welcome his seed with happy, sated cries.  Only an act of iron will kept him from reaching for her.  No.  It was not the time for lovemaking.  But this was not about passion.  It was about survival.  There might have been a time when he could be happy alone, but that time was long past.  Without his beloved and the remaining child she bore him, Drogo Baggins would have been a shell of a hobbit, his heart forever shattered, his spirit broken.  Frodo had to recover, because Primula could not survive the loss of two children, and Drogo could not live without her.  He stretched out on the bed and pulled her sleeping form to his chest.  She snuggled closely against him, an automatic habit, and Drogo sighed as he felt some of the tension leaving him.  He was asleep before he knew it.

TBC

 Chapter 11 - Hope

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It didn't hurt anymore. Well, as long as he didn't move, it didn't, and that was a decided improvement. The world had become a sea of warm light that moved like ripples in the water or sunlit bed sheets on the line wafting in a gentle summer breeze. At times, these curtains would briefly part and he would catch a glimpse of forms moving through that same golden light. It was too bright for him to be able to make out faces but the fact that there was someone there in the room beside him was comforting. There were sounds too; voices speaking in hushed tones, but he was too at ease to bother trying to work out what they were saying. A muted whisper like the sigh of wind stirring fields of ripened wheat lulled him. He wasn't frightened any more. It was just pleasant to float while brightness, comfort and safety enveloped him.

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"The best possible news, you say?" Menegilda had finally composed herself enough to ask the question. "Then my nephew will be alright? Oh, please, doctor, give me some relief. I have been beside myself since you gave that midwife care of the child! I could not imagine what you were thinking!"

Clearwater stared thoughtfully at the hallway down which Drogo had disappeared. His brows were drawn and he didn't appear to have even noted Menegilda had spoken. At last he glanced at his patronness, looking as if he wasn't quite sure how to word something unpleasant. "Best news?" he said with an apologetic but sad smile. "Yes, I know that is what I said. Perhaps it is. Time will tell for certain. But my most pressing concern is for my patient, Primula, not her son." The doctor sighed, took his pipe from his pocket and shook his head. "For her sake it might have been better had the child not survived."

At Menegilda's gasp, he paused searching among his various pockets and gave her a grim and uncomfortably cold smile. "I have treated head injuries before, madam," he said in an almost haughty tone. "The senses are more precarious and fleeting than most realize. Rarely are those as badly injured as young Frodo left unaffected. Most often they die, but those who survive are usually less than they were before...." His voice trailed off meaningfully and Menegilda felt a chill stealing over her. "I know Primula is a strong lass," the doctor continued. "But she is alarmingly devoted to that child. It's not normal, and I've always thought no good would come of it. Now I fear I shall be proven right." Clearwater found his pouch and sat back in his chair to fill his pipe as his words settled in the dame's mind. Her thoughts flitted one by one across her unguarded face and the doctor noted as each one was examined and digested. Menegilda was an easy one to read. It was just a matter of skill and timing to guide her to the conclusion one wanted her to reach. At the precisely correct moment, he leaned forward.

"How do you think she will handle an addle-brained child?" he asked in his softest, most benevolently saddened tone.

The uneasiness took full hold of Menegilda. She had never considered that her nephew would survive less than whole. The Brandybucks were a generally healthy lot, unlike the highly-strung and excitable Tooks. If something didn't kill them outright, they usually recovered from it. She looked into the Doctor's face, searching for any comfort - but all she saw there was grim sadness, pity and disapproval.

"'Addle-brained'?" she squeaked fearfully.

Clearwater slowly nodded. "Even with a successful surgery, he'll likely never awaken, and if he does I doubt he will have much of a mind left. I have seen a blow that didn't even cause senselessness scramble the brains so badly the victim had the comprehension of a child for the rest of his days." The doctor shook his head sadly. "And young Frodo's injury was far graver than that poor sot's was."

As the implications of the doctor's words sank into her heart, a sob rose to Menegilda lips. She turned away and again buried her face in her handkerchief. Frodo had always been such a clever, quick little thing; a charming scamp with the most deceptively innocent smile. Even at the tender age of eight he understood the power of his astonishingly blue eyes. When he turned them on Menegilda and his lips curved into a mischievous grin, she could deny him nothing. It was an almost physical pain to realize he might never again have the wit to use those wiles. She looked up and, in her despair, lashed out at the only person she could. "Is that why you didn't take the case?" she hiccupped, glaring at the doctor. "Because you were afraid of being blamed for Frodo's… enfeeblement?!"

Clearwater returned her gaze, completely undaunted. "I didn't take the case because the parents didn't want me to…" he answered quietly. "And because I don't think anything Daisy or I could do for the boy would truly help." He sighed with a carefully hopeless weariness. "You may be right; that I didn't want to be seen as the cause of what will undoubtedly be a tragic life. Seems rather selfish, perhaps, but I assure you, it is pity that moves me, not selfishness. If you had my experience, you might also have hoped Daisy's skills would have proven unequal to the task. I don't know. I believe it would have been kinder in the long run, but we shall see. I fear he's going to be a burden on Primula - one that she may be unable to bear." Clearwater paused and favored Menegilda with his wisest, most benevolent look. "It may be admirable to try and save any life you can," he said. "But experience has taught me that sometimes it is best not to deny fate."

Menegilda glanced up the darkened hallway. Pity and anguish welled up in her. It seemed beyond any justice that such tragedy could befall this sweet child and her darling Primula. "But surely," she sniffed. "He will not be so damaged as to be better off dead! I cannot believe that! My dearest lass is excitable, that's the Took in her, I am sure, but she's enough of a Brandybuck to be steadfast through this! I know it!"

The doctor nodded, seeming to take comfort from his patron's assessment. "You know your sister-in-law better than I do. I am afraid my experience has not been favorable in these types of cases. I will bow to your superior familiarity with the parties involved - and hope that Frodo will respond beyond my expectations."

********************

Primula snuggled close in Drogo's encircling arms. This was the way she had awoken every morning since she was wed; with his strong chest against her cheek and his body's warmth enfolding her like a cocoon. This was where she felt safest - like a little girl cradled and protected by a father's love. But this hobbit was not her father. No indeed. This hobbit could take her to heights her child-self would never have dreamed. She sighed against him sleepily, enjoying his rich, heady scent.

Something was different. Her cheek was lying against a hard brass button that she knew should not be on his nightshirt. As soon as her drowsy brain registered that it was his waistcoat she lay upon, and Menegilda's apartments in which she slept, a full-blown panic gripped her. Drogo was here with her.... That could only mean one thing.

"NO!!!!!" Primula's scream split the previously somnolent air. She arched her back and beat her delicate fists against Drogo's chest. He woke with an undignified snort and it was a moment before he realized the struggling wild thing beating upon his breast was his darling wife. Shaking his head a bit to shift the sleep from it, he captured her hands and rolled up onto his elbows to trap her bucking body beneath him.

"Prim!" he shouted over her screams. "Prim, he's alive! Frodo is alive!"

The scream died on her lips and she stared, astonished, into his face. She was half afraid she had imagined what he had just said.

"He's alive, my love," Drogo repeated, a tender, loving smile gracing his lips. "Daisy says the surgery was a success and she is confident he will live." Drogo released Primula's hands and pulled her now unresisting form close. "Our son will live," he whispered softly into her ear.

Primula gave a little relieved gasp that finally seemed to dispel the tension in her frame and threw her arms around her husband. Her shoulders shook with sobs that were buried into Drogo's shoulder. He also felt tears of gratitude forming at the corners of his eyes. His beloved would be all right as well.

"Oooo! You!" Primula suddenly gave his back an angry thump. For such a slight thing, she had a great deal of strength. The blow hurt.

"Ow!" Drogo leaned back and was greeted by his wife's angry scowl. She looked as furious now as she had relieved a moment ago. "What is it?" he asked, completely bewildered. Primula's eyes narrowed at him and she roughly pushed him away.

"My son is alive and you lay here asleep beside me!?!?" She rolled off the bed and stood beside it for a moment swaying slightly. The doctor's brew had evidently not worn off completely. "What were you thinking?" she scolded. "You should never have left his side!" Finally steadied, she looked about the room as if to find her bearings and headed quickly for the door. Drogo blinked and drew in a deep breath to dispel the last of the sleep from his mind. Despite the abrupt awakening and his wife's ire, he smiled. There was no longer any doubt in his mind Primula would be all right. He heaved himself off the bed and proceeded to follow her as quickly as he was able.

*****************

The darkness was gone. Something had chased it away and everything seemed to make more sense than before. He could feel clarity emerging from the sea of white. What had been confusing before, he now understood, and he knew in time even more would be made clear to him. Maybe, if he was good and waited long enough, he would understand everything?

*****************

Primula was afraid to touch Frodo, but ached to hold her son in her arms all the same.

His face looked so very small peeking out from the white bandages. The purpling bruise over his eye made his whole face as puffy as if a bee had stung him. Below the bruise, the right eye was swollen shut but the left was just open enough that a sliver of brilliant blue peeked out. Primula could see the eye drifting; roving back and forth as she'd often watched it do as Frodo slept. The familiar movement, disquieting as she might once have found it, reassured her.

"He's doing very well," said Daisy. "His breathing's settled down and he moved a bit when I put the smelling salts to him. Those are both good signs. I'm just about to get him up and see if we can get him to take some broth and care for his needs." The healer set a faintly steaming bowl on the nightstand and peered at her charge over Primula's shoulder. Drogo stood at the foot of the bed, watching mother and son with jealous pride. He positively beamed.

"He'll be right as rain, you'll see, Mrs. Burrows!"

Daisy spared him a frown. Drogo either didn't understand or didn't want to understand what she had warned him about after the surgery. Frodo 'right as rain' was hardly what Daisy expected; not now or any time soon. She hoped he would recover, but suspected it would be many months before he was even up and about, let alone 'right as rain'. Though it was hard to deny the family some measure of hope, she had never dealt with an injury as severe as his and did not want to provide any false assurances. Hearing Drogo Baggins make claims she wasn't at all certain would come to pass made her uneasy. Clearwater’s words had shaken her confidence more than she liked to admit.

"Perhaps…" she replied softly. "But much will depend on him... and on you." She fixed Drogo with a meaningful gaze but he, determined to be positive, ignored her. Daisy sighed and turned to Primula who still gazed at her sleeping son with wonder and a bit of trepidation. "We must try and rouse him a bit. He needs water and some victuals and I want to check his responses once again. Could you pick him up so I can arrange some pillows under him? It will be easier to feed him propped up than lying down."

Primula started when she realized the healer was allowing, no asking, her to take Frodo into her arms. She looked into Daisy's face with such a look of pained despair and longing that the other hobbit was taken aback.

"He's all right," whispered Daisy, comprehending her expression with a sudden burst of insight. "You won't hurt him and I think you both need to touch. He needs to know you are really there." 'And you need to reassure yourself that he's really still alive too...' She placed a gentle hand on the other mother's shoulder; encouragement, compassion and empathy nearly bringing tears to her own eyes. "Go ahead."

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The veils of light parted and he saw above him a lovely face lit with the same radiance as the sheets. It was so bright he almost couldn't see her features but the way she moved and the sounds of her voice mingled with the sigh of the resonant wind shook loose a memory. A name came to him. 'Mum'. She would be so proud that he remembered it.

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While Primula slept, Daisy had dressed Frodo in a soft linen nightshirt but fastened it so that his broken arm was uncovered. The limb had been re-splinted and was bound to his body with soft cotton cloth to keep it from moving. Primula was careful to avoid jarring the arm as she leaned over and slipped one hand under her son's warm body. The other she placed under his bandaged head and gently lifted him against her chest as she had when he was an infant. There was a bit more of him now than there had been then. She leaned back and wrapped his gangly legs around her waist. ‘When did he get so big?’ she wondered, her heart wrenching. It seemed only yesterday she was settling him against her breast to feed him; feeling his soft wriggling body grow fat on her milk and watching his sleepy, contented face drift off in her arms. She sighed and laid her cheek gently against his.

He was alive! She could feel his sweet breath, even and steady against her neck. She could smell that unique little boy smell that always transcended even the foulest mess he got into. She could feel his heart beating strong through the hands she spread wonderingly across his small back. She could have wept for joy.

He was a solid child, for all his slimness, and Primula could feel the wiry muscles that lay under the rapidly disappearing baby fat. He would be slight, like she was, like the Tooks, but he was built like Drogo with broad shoulders and long, elegant fingers. A fair prince of a hobbit, as she'd always claimed. Her little prince and he would be well. Drogo had said so. She stroked his cheek gently with her own and whispered softly in his ear. She spoke naught but nonsense words and snatches of little rhymes; things she'd sung to him a thousand times, things she hoped to sing to him a thousand times more. The words fell onto his delicately pointed ear and filtered slowly into his drifting consciousness. Nonsense words they might have been, but on some level Frodo understood. His mum was very proud of him. He would be well and both she and his father would stay by his side and they loved him so very much.

Frodo didn't wake, but after a time began to make small noises in his throat. At first it was a whimper then a sigh. Drogo slid behind Primula on the bed, wrapped one arm around his wife's trembling shoulders and touched the other hand tenderly to his son's bandaged head.

"It's alright, my sweet boy. We are here, and you are getting better. You are safe now." Frodo's face scrunched up and he licked his lips in a slow and methodical gesture that seemed to require all his concentration. He frowned again and his mouth began to form a word.

"Mum?"

It was in the barest whisper and slurred but clear enough to be understood by Primula whose ear was mere inches away from Frodo's mouth and Drogo who sat beaming around proud and happy tears. Daisy started at the sound and looked at the little family in complete shock.

"Did he speak?" the healer asked, incredulous. "Was that a word he just got out?" Primula nodded, tears beginning to flood her own eyes. Daisy gasped, her delight and pride growing into a smile almost as broad as Drogo's. "Oh this is wonderful!" she cried. "I hoped, but didn't expect...." The healer choked back a sob. "Oh, this is so much better than I dared imagine!"

Tears of relieved joy streamed silently down Primula's face. She could have sat with her sweet child in her arms and her beloved husband spooned behind her till the end of her days. She could feel the warmth of both their bodies surrounding her and the feeling filled her with love and fierce hope. Drogo leaned over and kissed his son's head, then he pressed his lips to his wife's flushed cheek. His encircling arm hugged her protectively and he whispered words that only she and their son could hear.

"You are our light and breath, Frodo, my son, and we will always love you. You will be well, I promise it. You will recover and grow big, healthy and strong. You will be the most incredible hobbit this world has ever known... " His voice quavered but steadied again when Primula looked over her shoulder at him. The warmth, pride and love in her eyes filled him with their power. He steeled his voice and pushed through the tightness beginning to bind his throat. "Always remember, boy," he finished, his voice rough with tears. "No matter where your fate leads you, your mother and I will always be with you, come what may."

TBC

Warnings: This fic is rated for graphic medical details, contains some violence (fights) and hints at darker themes, but contains no slash or sexual themes.  *This particular chapter deals with the issue of child abuse - (though not sexual abuse and not the abuse of one of Tolkien's characters).  If a discussion of this subject is likely to upset you, I would suggest you do not read.

 Author's Note:  OK... back with the angst.  I will warn folks from the onset that this chapter deals with my OC and a turning point in his life.  It is a very necessary part of the tale as a whole and I have been told it is a good read, but it does not have much Frodo in it.  Sorry.  Because of what goes on in this chapter, my OC will be out of the way for a while and I will be concentrating on some Frodo, Primula and Drogo interactions as they struggle to overcome this injury in the next chapters.

I have also found that when this chapter was posted on ff.net, none of the people who usually get author alerts from me got them.  So, if I haven't run into you lately to tell you that I had a new chapter up, then I am telling you now. :p

Fear Chapter 12 - Like Father, Like Son

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Dody was surprised how easily he took to the exercise of stealth and deception. It was almost as if he had been bred to perform acts of thievery and deceit, or at least trained from infancy to perform them. He walked past the main hall, saw in hand, with hardly a comment from any of the older hobbits who whiled away the day sunning themselves in the entry garden. He wasn't sure if that was a testament to his unruffled façade or because an afternoon of gossiping over an injured child, his relations and their affected prospects had made them even more interested in their upcoming teatime than was usual. Past Brandy Hall's expansive gates and gardens, the main road led north and slightly east so that it drew away from the river. The land was low rolling hills, not as impressive as the mass of the Buck Hill, but enough so that the road ahead was often lost amid the rise and fall of the well worn way. Even if someone had seen Dody leave Buckleberry, they would probably have assumed he was headed towards the apple orchards that grew in the rich black soil between the road and the river. His casual turning onto the overgrown eastward-leading trail might have raised an eyebrow or two had any seen him do it.

The path was deserted but Dody stole along it as quietly as a hobbit could. Sunlight lit the wings of drowsing insects and the airborne seeds of aspen and elm, filling the air with drifting motes of yellow light. The site seemed peaceful, contented. It hardly seemed possible that mere hours before painful and irreversible things had happened beneath the shade of these trees.

It was waning afternoon and the light had a quality that usually soothed the mind and filled the heart. If Dody's errand had not been so dire, he would have paused in that wood and drunk up the haze of quiet like a draught of strong wine. Afternoons like this reminded him of his mother. For as long as Dody could remember, it had been Lacy Brandybuck's ritual to spend teatime with her children. She had called it her 'constitutional' - and she had cherished the interludes as much as her children had. When Dody was very small, he and his sisters would gather around to hear stories and relate to each other the passing fancy and gossip of the Hall, but as his sisters matured and discovered more entertaining ways to spend their teatimes, Dody had kept the custom alone.

He had been a prideful child then; haughty and arrogant. He would frequently assert, to cousins who barely noticed his existence, that he was too old to be coddled, but hazy, sunlit afternoons would inexorably draw him back to the comfort of his mother's arms. The two of them would meet in the garden under the shade of an old hawthorn and sip tea. Sometimes they would talk of simple things and sometimes the subjects would drift into realms of meaning that had made Dody's head spin. He had not always understood what his dear mother said, but to hear her voice and feel the comfort of her hand gently stroking his dark curls had been enough for him. He would lay his head in his mother's lap and there, beneath the shade of the trees, he had been content to be her baby.

He wondered if she had a garden where she was now, and if he saw her again, would she even want him to lay his head upon her knee?

Despair had become such a familiar emotion that it did not even inspire tears any more.

Dody had fallen into a sort of fatal calm. He knew what he had to do. The voices in his mind had hushed in expectant silence, watching and waiting as he went through the flawlessly silent motions of a master thief. He reached the tree that Frodo had fallen from earlier in the day and climbed it with unwavering single-mindedness. At the broken branch he cut through the hinge of wood that still held it and watched without emotion as it snagged on the branches below him. The necklace sparkled in the fading light. Dody climbed to it carefully and pulled it out of its green perch.

Lying there in the palm of his hand, the trinket seemed smaller than he remembered it. It was the same necklace that he had often seen gracing the neck of his beloved mother, but with a sudden flash of insight, Dody realized that no part of that gentle hobbit lady was mirrored in its sparkling facets. It had nothing to do with her. It was truly just an ornament, a thing; cold and timeless and it held no more respect for or memories of his mother than it had the elven ladies it might once have adorned. It did not remember any of them, nor did it care that it had inspired him to a thievery that might have, in turn, caused the death of an innocent. He turned it idly in his hands watching the afternoon light lifting specks of color from the gems' fathomless depths. Lovely as it was, Dody was pained to realize that he valued the soft cotton shawl he had snatched from his mother's deathbed infinitely more. At least in those beloved folds, he could still smell his mother and could still imagine her soft fingers in his hair while he held it. This impersonal trinket, bereft of the treasure it had graced - his warm and living mother- had lost any hold it might once have had on him. Let Marietta wear the cursed thing! She would certainly make no more impression on it than had his mother. Without another thought he pocketed the gems and began his descent.

~*~

It was well dark by the time Dody approached his home. One window in the parlor glowed golden with the light of an oil lamp but the rest of the smial was unlit. Dody approached the back gate, planning to slip in through the garden door, the entry furthest from the parlor. With luck, his father and his new wife would not even know when he had returned.

The kitchen was dark, but Dody knew the room well. He crept inside and drew the door closed. The cabinets were to his right and the kitchen table to his left. The pantry also lay to the left and was dug deep into the hill to keep perishables cool. He touched the chair and the table to ascertain their positions and moved through the warm darkness in a desperate sort of silence. Even his breathing was noiseless. He was long practiced at this kind of stealth and knew the briefest bump of a chair leg or shuffle of stumbling feet would alert his father that he was sneaking into the house.

His plan was to slip into Marietta's parlor and, if convenient, place the necklace somewhere inconspicuous but visible so that the lady would be sure to find it. With luck, Marietta would think she herself mislaid them, or perhaps she would be too leery of Dodinas' wrath to announce the loss before a thorough search was made. If his luck was bad, as was usual, and the necklace was already known to be missing, he would confess that he had only wanted to see the gems - that seeing them brought back fond memories of the mother he loved and missed. That excuse would certainly be believed, and though he might be punished for taking the jewels, none would be the wiser of his involvement in Frodo's deadly fall.

Dody was first aware that he was not alone by the sound of another's breathing. He instantly recognized the raggedly drawn inhalation that seethed with barely contained fury. His father sat somewhere in the shadows of the room, waiting for him. Dody paused, feeling the sickly drop of panic shiver through his bowels and the blood draining from his face. He was caught! He heard movement and the shade of a lantern was lifted, revealing, in its meager light, his father's profile and the side of one meaty arm. Dodinas sat at the table, scowling but with the light of satisfaction gleaming in his cold eyes. He held his anger in check but Dody knew it would not stay there long. A mug was on the table and the boy could smell the ale on his father's breath. There was an eager hitch in his father's wheezes that terrified Dody. Was he angry enough to strike him? To have a hapless victim at his mercy, to have a reason to torment and abuse was Dodinas' meat and bread and Dody knew it all too well, but he had only once seen his father irate enough to actually beat him, and Dody had barely survived the encounter.

"Where've you been, boy?" his father growled. Dody's insides chilled further at the tone of voice. Dody's luck had not held; Dodinas knew about the necklace. Dody was as certain of that as he had been of his father's ignorance earlier. Over the course of the afternoon, he must have learned of the theft - and had deduced, correctly, who the thief had been. Dody could hear the dangerous thrill in his father's voice. He was angry and wanted to punish his son - an activity that always seemed to give the older hobbit an obscene measure of pleasure. Dody had learned to predict the magnitude of the impending punishment by the level of eagerness he could hear in his father's voice. This time his father sounded exuberant. Necklace returned or not, Dody would pay for his folly.

"I... I've been..."

"DON'T LIE TO ME, BOY!" Dodinas hissed, not even waiting for the excuse. This was the way they always played this game - and both father and son were old hands at it. Dody would offer up heartfelt explanations but in the end, Dodinas would cow him down. If Dody submitted, his punishment would be less severe, but if he tried to protest his innocence, Dodinas would be merciless. Dody's panicked mind spun. His hand clenched onto his pocket and he felt the smooth hardness of the now hateful jewels. For an instant it seemed as if Dody's world stood still. He looked at his father and saw the fury in those hard, dark eyes. He rubbed the gems, and incomprehensibly, a thrill of triumph rose and sang in his ears, filling him like a heady draught of strong wine. The germ of an idea was forming in his mind and the realization of it filled him with both hope and horror. Dody had been seeking his own death, but he had not had the strength to accomplish it, and yet here, in the cruel and violent form that was slowly coming to its feet before him, was his answer.

The gems were found and now returned to the home to which they belonged. The child who had fallen would likely die of his injuries and the only thing that would remain of the whole unhappy incident would be the gnawing guilt that would eat up Dody Brandybuck's insides. And yet here was a possible salvation. Only once before had Dody seen his father as angry as he was now, and that had been the night he'd almost been killed. What if he could get his father angry enough, infuriate him until he lost control again? The older hobbit might just succeed this time. The thought made Dody's head spin. Hobbits did not kill - it was a concept totally alien and purposeless to them, but Dodinas had almost done it before. That time had taught Dody a terrifying lesson: that his mother had been his protector all those years, and that now that she was gone, he was at the mercy of a hobbit who had none. Though, perhaps, he could use even that dearly paid for knowledge. It would be an elegant solution to his dilemma. His guilt would no longer plague him and his father would stand accused of a crime more heinous than any in Dody's memory. The dark lure of that revenge sang in his ears. Dody raised his chin and stared into his father's dark and glittering eyes.

Though he had never actually tried to anger his father, he had a good idea of what would do it. He had always before tried desperately to placate not enrage, but Dody was fairly sure that if he tried to resist, to fight back, his father would strike him. The chill of fear ran up his back but with it this time came also a spark of defiance. Oh, it would be worth his life to see his hateful father brought low! Dody had killed, or at least been the cause of severe injury to Frodo Baggins, a child whose life was precious to many, unlike his own. There was nothing he could do to change that, but if, in his final living act, he could bring his own father to justice for his cruelty... THAT would be worth any amount of pain.

"You stole that necklace, didn't you?!" Dodinas growled. "And now your stepmother is off to tell Rory about it going missing. She left me a note, but I needed no note to figure exactly where the thing had gone. Your sneaking, thieving little fingers snatched it, didn't they? And now the whole Hall will know of your indiscretions!" Dodinas halted mere inches from Dody's face, his hot, ale-sodden breath blowing cruelly onto Dody's chilled skin. "You know how much I dislike the family meddling in my private affairs." The boy stiffened, willing his heart to remain resolute.

"It was my mother's...," he said softly, the dangerous edge to his voice nearly buried by fear. "You had not the right," he finished, in a barely audible tone.

Dodinas grasped his son's collar and shook the boy harshly. "You DARE to tell me what I can and cannot do with my own things?!!?" His eyes were lit with a cruel fire, his mouth was specked with spittle and his face was flushed as red as a radish. "YOU are the one with no right, boy... " He shoved back hard and Dody's body slammed into the cabinetry. Flashes of light exploded behind his eyes, but Dody still somehow kept his feet. "You have NOTHING that belongs to you here, it is all mine. ALL of it - and I say where my things will go." He slammed his son's head against the casement again and this time Dody had to shut his eyes to keep the world from spinning. "'Going to tell Rory'! Ha! I could have told her where that necklace had got to. Now she's gone and told the whole Hall my son is a worthless thief! Airing our private business...!" He gripped Dody's shirtfront tighter. "It's none of their affair what goes on inside this house, is it, boy?"

Dody's instinctive response of a panic stricken assertion rose almost before he had a chance to squelch it, but he mastered it with a newfound, hideous resolve. No, he thought forcing his own anger to the fore. Something odd was happening to him. Despite the fact that he knew his goal was to enrage his father, knew he ultimately was trying to get his father to beat him to death, something inside of him seemed to thrill with the chance to finally be allowed to fight him. He knew he was no match for the stocky hobbit. He had been born with his mother's build: lithe and wiry, and at 20 years, was already late in filling out, but though he knew what would result from a conflict between them, he was still elated to try. At last, he would stand up to his father! Even if his resistance were squashed the instant it rose, it would be worth the effort of defiance! He stiffened his back and scrambled to regain his feet.

"Yes, I took it..." Dody's voice sounded high and strange in his own ears. "I was not willing to see my mother's memory discarded." He tried to pry his father's gripping hand from his shirt, but Dodinas was not moved. "I took it and cast it away," he lied. "Into the river! You shall never have it, Father. Never!" This last was uttered more as a strangled shriek than as enraged defiance, but Dody's eyes blazed with maniacal fury, now much more stirred by rebellion than by the opportunity to seek his own death. He struggled and kicked, connecting once hard to Dodinas' gut and then Dodinas, with a furious roar, struck him across the face so brutally that he dropped to the floor.

Coppery-tasting blood filled his mouth and Dody looked up to see the shadowed but infuriated face of his father bearing down on him. Though his head spun and his eyes refused to focus, he took his opportunity and swung his right arm up and wide as hard as he could.

The blow connected with Dodinas' ear and the older hobbit howled in pain. Dody allowed a flitting smile of satisfaction to cross his face. As Dodinas staggered back, Dody struggled to his knees, his own wrath driving him on to attack his attacker. He pushed his sluggish limbs to try and regain his feet as quickly as possible. Rage filled his belly and while it did, he knew he must use it, but he had only one foot under him when Dodinas returned more enraged than he had ever been in his life.

He kicked Dody hard in the belly, a blow that drove the air from the boy's lungs and his ribs mercilessly into his side. Dody dropped to the ground again and tried to curl around the agony in his middle, but the blows kept coming, peppering his side and arms with pain. Again and again Dodinas kicked and Dody, trapped between the cabinet and his father's vicious feet, could neither escape nor attack. Pain and fear filled him and the impacts blurred until he could not tell one from the other. His vision dimmed and even the sharp edges of his pain blurred and ran together.

It was working. Dody's body went limp and he could no longer even serve the pretense of fight or flight. His will remained maniacally defiant, but his tormented frame was being battered beyond response. Dodinas continued to pummel the boy with abandon, his fury seemingly enraged tenfold by the child's earlier show of will. It was as if Dodinas wanted to reach Dody's fleeing consciousness and beat that into submission as well, but Dody's mind was already drifting, hardly aware of the relentless abuse his slim body was receiving. He had done it. He would be free. He had succeeded in driving his father beyond reason. If he had been able he would have laughed.

"DODINAS!!!"

The shriek of a horrified female voice broke through Dody's bloody reverie. Marietta. 'Oh, good,' he thought inanely. Now his father would turn his wrath upon her. Dody almost wished he could focus on the scene, it would be worth seeing, but his eyes were filled with blood and his were lids quickly stiffening with pain and swelling. The words shouted above him drifted into his dazed thought.

"What in the sweet Shire's name are you DOING?!"

Dodinas stood, breathless, and backed away from his son, slowly looking down as if only just realizing what had transpired. Marietta Gould Brandybuck, her shawl still wrapped about her shoulders, set her taper to the lamp against the wall and the small kitchen filled with light. She was an imposing matron, severe and thin but as tall as Dodinas and even more formidable. Her dark curls were drawn back in a tight bun and her dark cotton bodice and gown were austere and impeccably tailored; stiff refinement in stark contrast to the scene of brutality before her.

"Sweet heavens!" Marietta gasped as she stepped aside and allowed the lamp to illuminate Dody's battered face. The boy blinked stupidly at her and raised a sluggish arm to shield his swollen eyes from the light. He looked like a runaway cart had hit him. Marietta rounded on Dodinas in an instant of fury that even the height of his madness had not matched. "What kind of idiot are you?!" she shrieked and knelt beside the child to check his pulse.

The second daughter of five in a family that had had little, Marietta had grown up keenly aware of how to take care of herself both socially and financially. Her marriage to Dodinas was unusual, in that hobbits rarely remarried, but it had been an arrangement of necessity and convenience. After Lacy's death, Dodinas' habitual cruelty to his son became a secret embarrassment to the family. It was considered distasteful to discuss or interfere in such private affairs, but when Dodinas beat his son it became impossible to ignore. Rory Brandybuck, believing that marriage had settled him before, sought a bride for Dodinas - one who could control him and who also didn't mind having the use of his fortune. Though Dody knew nothing of the arrangement, Dodinas had been vaguely aware he had little choice but to marry Marietta. Luckily, he had found enough of similar temperament between them to find the arrangement comfortable. For her part, Marietta had been contented as well. She had a place in the powerful family, a lovely home, and a hobbit to provide for her. It was all that she had expected from her life and she was not about to risk any part of it.

Dody jumped at her cool touch, unable to see her through the blood and only becoming aware of her nearness by the rustle of her petticoats. Marietta touched his neck, and took in the sight of his bloody nose, swollen eyes and split and bleeding lips. Satisfied that the child did indeed live, she allowed one look of horror to pass unobserved over her face and then composed herself with an almost professional detachment, as if she, while furious at the condition of her stepson, was not at all surprised to see it. She got to her feet and faced her husband, her face livid. "You could have killed him!" she hissed. "What kind of fool are you? Where would that act have left you, my dear? And more importantly, where would that have left your daughters and me?! Have you no sense?"

Dodinas stepped back, his rage cooling as the logical tack of her argument struck home. "He's the one who stole your necklace!" he protested.

"I deduced that much!" Marietta shot back in disgust. "He's the only one who'd have been likely to steal in this house."

"Then why did you go to Rory?" growled Dodinas back at her, still defiant though now beginning to panic as he realized the position he had placed himself in.

The look Marietta then favored him with was as cold as the cruelest steel. She glanced down at the feebly twitching form of Dody and, with an arched brow, looked back at Dodinas. Her disgust was obvious. "To report the theft, and to let him know whom I suspected, of course. But if I'd thought you would be foolish enough to do this ..." she hissed, then shook her head. "Most folk won't kill their own kind, let alone their flesh and blood....," she continued. "But you have already proven your stupidity in that regard. I see it was too optimistic of me to presume you had learned your lesson the first time." Dodinas stiffened, but could not counter her, especially with the evidence still lying bloody on the floor. "This will be hard to explain, Dodinas." She gestured idly towards his son. "Do you want to be banished? Do you want the family to forsake you? Dody may be a miserable brat, but he is your son, and a child. Do you really think that the Brandybucks will tolerate you doing this to a child?!?" Dodinas let out a sudden breath, the weight of her words and the import of his situation apparently sinking in. He also looked down at his son and his previously red and furious face paled. "I've made a life here, Dodinas," she continued. "And I like it. I don't wish to have it disrupted because of your idiocy. You were warned once before - and whether you realize it or not, you were almost banished then. Remember why you agreed to marry me, Dodinas, and why I agreed to be wed."

Dodinas pulled back as if bitten and stared at his wife as she again bent to see to Dody. If they bore each other little love, at least they keenly understood one another. He respected her and the power she wielded within the Brandybuck family, she being cousin to Menegilda, but it seemed respect alone was not enough to keep his vile temperment in check.

"He says he threw it in the river," Dodinas continued, almost apologetically. "I lost my head..."

"Yes, you did," Marietta agreed. "You should try engaging your mind first for a change. He would not have discarded something that precious. Aha!" She had been running her hands over Dody's feebly resisting form searching for broken bones when her questing fingers encountered the hard bulge in his pocket. She wormed her way into the garment and pulled the gems triumphantly forth. "You see? Even your son is not stupid enough to throw something this valuable away! You should have had more confidence." She looked over her shoulder disdainfully at her husband.

Dodinas swallowed, looking resentful at her assertion, but he masked it quickly. "'Boy's a fool. I know him better than you do. Throwing those jewels away would have been just like him. I think you have far too much confidence in him."

"Perhaps, but in the end, I was correct, was I not?"

Dodinas grudgingly nodded. "Well, the blasted thing is back - and that would've been the end of it, if you hadn't gone to Rory. He's my son and I'll settle him as I see fit. It's no business of theirs what goes on in my own house."

Marietta again looked at him coldly and stood. Righteous indignation vied with contempt in her gaze and Dodinas' own guilt answered it. He squirmed, wishing he could take back his suddenly foolish seeming words. "No one has the 'right' to do this." She pulled herself up to her full height and stared him levelly in the eye. "By these kinds of actions, you have made it their business, Dodinas. Do you think Rory likes interfering in such matters? Of course not, but you have forced his hand. You have not acted wisely and have raised a child that few can stand and fewer can handle. But he's a Brandybuck - and Rory's responsibility, ultimately. As distasteful as he finds it, your brother has deemed it necessary to interfere. And I feel the same." She looked down at the lethargic Dody who was struggling painfully to sit up and motioned Dodinas forward. "Come," she said with brusque efficiency. "Help him to his room. He will need to be cleaned and his injuries dressed and I will not do that on the kitchen floor."

Dodinas bent and lifted his son. Dody groaned and stiffened when he realized who was aiding him and tried to slink back against the cabinets, but his trembling body was too weak to evade his tormentor. Dodinas, with incongruous tenderness, moved Dody's fending arms aside and pulled him to his chest. His encircling arms trembled and he laid his cheek against Dody's sweat slicked curls. "Why do you make me do these things to you?" he asked in the barest of pained whispers. Then, aloud and to Marietta, he asked, "And what do you propose to do now, my sweet? As you say, if I am banished, your home, and my fortune are forfeit."

"Unfortunately, yes," Marietta answered carrying the taper she had held aloft and guiding them back to Dody's room. "But I do have other options - ones that will, I think, turn out best for all concerned."

Dody had never in his lifetime known such impossible rage. He had also never felt quite so powerless to express it. He hated his father more at that moment than he had ever done in his life, but he loathed Marietta even more. Why had she interfered? His lovely plan had gone as wrong as it could possibly have. He'd paid his due, taken the blows and yet he had gotten nothing for his sacrifice but pain. No blissful release of death, no Dodinas in irons, no Marietta turned out of his mother's home. Nothing had gone as he had desperately needed it to. And now he was being held and comforted by the vile creature whose hands had caused the agony! It was too much to bear! Tears of rage squeezed out of his swollen eyes and he struggled to free himself from his father's hold. If Dody could not get any of what he had sought then he would not let his father assuage his guilt by caring for him now. He arched his back and cried out as his father's grip tightened over his bruised ribs.

"Just let me carry you, Dody. It will be easier this way."

"No!" the boy protested through thickened lips. "Don't you touch me! Never touch me again!" He continued to struggle, but even he could see how futile the effort was. His strength was waning rapidly as the bruised tissue stiffened and grew hot, but he could not bring himself to stop. It was as if a dam had burst and he could no longer hold back the defiance and rage he had loosed. His father sighed and squeezed his fingers into Dody's shoulder in a guilty show of compassion. Dody felt ill. Dodinas had been like this the last time too; so guilt ridden by his incomprehensible actions that for a while he had actually been kind to his son. That had been the first time in his life Dody had felt he had some power over his father. It had been an odd feeling but had only lasted until the bruises had faded.

They reached Dody's room and laid him on the bed. He rolled across the mattress and plastered himself sullenly against the wall, out of reach of either of his persecutors. After a few moments he heard them whispering to each other and then there was the sound of the door being closed and locked. Dody sagged, exhausted from his torment and finding the strength and resolve that rage had given him quickly ebbing. In the quiet darkness of his room, he found himself wondering if he had inherited his father's lack of common sense as well as his temper. What in the world had he been thinking? He hurt everywhere! From the tips of his ears to the toenails on his furry feet! That he had brought this upon himself, deliberately, now seemed the most desperate kind of folly. He suddenly felt too tired, too heartsick and too lost to feel even hatred. All he desperately wanted at that moment was his mother's touch. She would have stroked his brow, wiped his bruises with tincture and murmured soft words of comfort in his ear. Oh, how he ached for her then! He tried to remember her face and though images of her movement, a sweep of skirts or the graceful arch of her hand came easily to mind, he had trouble seeing the rest of her. Was he losing those memories already? He focused on the vision of her hand as it moved the curls from his face. Yes, he could see that and could almost feel her soft fingertips on his heated skin. She would have been proud that he had brought the necklace back. She would have thought it brave. He sighed and with the beloved image of his mother foremost in his thoughts, he fell into a pained and uneasy sleep.

~*~

She was wiping his face.

Oh, she had come back! Why had she left him for so long? He sighed as he felt her removing his shirt, gently holding his stiff, sore limbs to fold the fabric back. In his dream, he heard her soft exclamation and the hurt and sorrow in that cry smote his heart. He was sorry that he had distressed her - he had not wanted to - but he would explain that it was only for her love that he had done it - to perhaps reach her in that place she had gone to. He yielded to her tender touch as she rolled him onto his side and with infinite care, removed the rest of his garments. Half in his dream he felt her bathing his heated limbs. Everywhere the cloth touched his skin was soothed, his aches made a little less painful and his muscles a bit less contracted. There were herbs in the water she used; thyme, mint, and something with an acrid scent that bit but passed its soothing numbness deep into his battered body. Movement became easier, but as his pain eased, consciousness struggled to rise. He did not want to wake. This dream was far more pleasant than his waking reality. He wanted to cherish it and her blessed, welcome presence for as long as possible. She had come back to him and that was all he knew or cared.

But that realization itself gave him pause. As reason reasserted itself, he understood that this could not be his mother. She was dead and long gone, and because his attempt had failed, he could not be feeling her longed for hand against his cheek. The clink of crockery and the elegant whisper of rich fabric greeted his returning senses. No, this was not his mother who tended him. A pang of regret seized his heart as the illusion faded, but he pushed on towards consciousness.

He still ached horribly. His ribs hurt with every shallowly drawn breath and his face was hot and swollen. If he lay perfectly still, it was not as bad, but when he tried to open his eyes, his body protested and the automatic grimace of pain that ensued caused its own suite of misery.

"Don't…" came the gentle voice that had exclaimed over his injuries earlier. Dody was puzzled. He almost didn't recognize the voice. He had never heard Marietta speak to him with anything even resembling tenderness, but it was definitely her talking. Her hand stroked his forehead and Dody was too shocked by this uncharacteristic action to think to pull away. There was a sound like the touch of glass on glass and then the soft murmur of liquid pouring. Marietta slipped a hand under his head and carefully raised it while putting a cup to his lips.

"Drink," she said. "It's brandy and willow bark. It will ease your pain and make you sleepy again."

Dody obeyed, still in too much wonder to resist. The drink had been sweetened but was still bitter and biting. He almost gagged, but knew the relief it would bring and so forced the concoction down. When he had finished the drink, he managed to get one eye open a crack and looked up at Marietta sitting beside him on the bed. He stared at her wordlessly for a long moment, not knowing what else to do.

"The usual response is to say 'thank you'," she offered with slight grin. Dody sighed and closed his eyes, too weary and confused to trust his voice. "I will take that as said," she added softly laying his head back down and returning the cup to the table.

For many long minutes Dody just lay there letting the brandy's fire warm his belly and begin to spread gentle feelers through his limbs. It did feel better, but Dody was loath to admit it. His long hatred of Marietta and the character he had always assumed for her was at complete odds with her current actions. He didn't want to see her as other than the enemy, but he could not deny the kindness she had shown and he was in no condition to refuse it. He opened his eye again to study her.

She was looking back at him. Her face again displayed the mask of gentle amusement that Dody had always interpreted as disdain. He had thought her haughty and cold, but now he wondered if he had been incorrect in his assessment. There was concern in her eyes and sadness, but these were tempered by efficient practicality. It was irony that he perceived, not haughtiness. She saw much that she could do nothing about and instead of despairing over it, she did what was needful, what she could, and took note of the rest.

"You are welcome," she said smiling wryly.

"…I…I'm sowwy…" His lips seemed as reluctant to form the words as Dody felt to speak them but Marietta nodded graciously, perhaps sensing the effort it took for him to thank her. He started to shift in his discomfort but thought better of it as his bruises protested.

Marietta pulled the blanket back over him and laid a kindly and ever so gentle hand on his shoulder. She sat unmoving for a moment, looking out the small round window that opened onto Dody's room. For the first time the boy noticed that it was morning and the cheery light was spilling in as if nothing dreadful had happened the night before.

"This was very foolish, you realize," she said and then regarded him sadly. "I know you can see what he is like… and I know you dislike what he is, but can't you see that you are following that same path?" She frowned. "Do you want to be like him?" She shook her head. "I am not your mother, Dody, but I do care what happens to you. Not enough, perhaps, to put up with your temper and sullenness, your very apparent hatred of me and wanton disregard of my property…" She spared him a look of disapproval. "…But enough to want to see you done right by. If you could have once seen beyond your hate, you would have seen that I could help you. Even your father was able to recognize aid when he saw it." She straightened and took her hand away to lay it primly in her lap. "Be that as it may, I believe you deserve to be given a chance at the very least."

"…you needn't…" he began.

An arched eyebrow stayed him. "On the contrary, my dear boy, you have made it imperative that I do something. I won't have you ruining my home with your impetuous behavior. You and Dodinas are too alike; you clash like two bulls in the same pasture. I should have done this two years ago, but I suppose late is better than never at all."

"…wha…?"

"I am sending you away, Dody. For your protection and for mine. Dodinas could still be banished but I think with this solution we might be able to permanently avoid such embarrassments. You are going to live with my cousin, Menegilda, until you come of age and can go your own way." She paused, letting her words and their import settle into his brain. "I doubt Mene would want you either but she will definitely agree you cannot stay here. Your uncle will be your guardian from now on, and let us hope you can recognize this change of fortune as the boon it most undoubtedly is."

Dody could not think what to say. He did not even know what to feel. Leave his home? Truly, with his mother gone he had nothing that held him here; even the memories of her presence in the various rooms were fading, but to leave? He looked out the small window to see green leaves stirring against the pane. There was a time when the image of that sunny garden automatically made him think of what he had lost, but it had been too long since he'd lost it and new unhappy memories were replacing the old beloved ones. He thought of what it might be like living in Menegilda's home, with her fine furnishings and pristine parlor. She had always been kind to him if not overtly warm, but then, he chided himself, what reason had he ever given his relatives for warmth towards him? Living in Brandy Hall had to be preferable to dealing with either his father or his wife, however kind she was currently being. This newfound 'generosity' could probably be attributed to Marietta's recognition of an opportunity to rid herself of a problem, but whatever the reason for it, Dody found he was not adverse to the idea of leaving. Perhaps in the hall he would be given a chance to start again, see if he could make his own way without the strangling oppression of his father's tyranny. Perhaps he could even make amends for the injury his thoughtless acts had caused to Frodo Baggins. It was a way that he could assuage his guilt without anyone ever knowing he had played a role in the accident. That thought suddenly gave him the most incredible sense of lightness, of exhilaration, relief and excitement. Despite his injuries he felt the urge to get up at once and leave that hateful place.

"… when?…" The word was difficult to say through his swollen lips, but Marietta seemed to understand.

"Well, I'll not take you up in daylight looking like that. We'll see how you are doing this evening. If you are up to travel, I will guide you to the Hall and we will slip you in by Menegilda's smial. I believe it would be unseemly for any to see you in your present condition so we will try and avoid that if possible. I also believe it would be wiser if you were never to speak of this again to anyone. Do you understand? Mene will know, and Rory, of course, but it is not something the rest of the Hall would be comfortable hearing. I think it would be best for all concerned if it remained a secret. Perhaps you should consider that a condition of our 'deal'?" Dody was too achy to nod but Marietta assumed his affirmative. "Alright then! I am glad you see the logic of this, Dody. I truly am interested in your welfare - and think you deserve far better than you have got. Take this chance and make a life for yourself. You have the prospect of growing into something other than what your father has become. Please, for your own sake if there is no one else you would swear by, don't throw away this opportunity."

The drug was taking effect and Dody was beginning to feel too quiet and sleepy to even nod. He closed his eyes and felt the world slipping away from beneath his lids. Hope, so long forgotten, buoyed him and he felt optimistic for the first time in years. It was not enough to keep his drugged mind alert, but it was enough for him to find peace in the dreams that filled his tranquil sleep.

TBC

Fear, Chapter 13 - Awakenings

by Ariel (lgreenaw@kcnet.org)

Rating: PG-13 for medical details and high angst

Warnings: This fic is rated for graphic medical details, contains some violence (fights) and hints at darker themes, but contains no slash or sexual themes.  

Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkien's - I make no profit but my own pleasure from using them in fiction.  

Story description: Falls can be deadly - especially if you are a very young Frodo Baggins.  A brooding cousin and a fabulous necklace form the backdrop for this tale of angst and heartache, dire injury and long healing.

Author's Note:  See?  I told you, be patient and I would be back with more Frodo.  If you are reading this and think I haven't updated in months, you might want to check the previous chapters.  I know that none of the people who usually get author alerts from me got one when I updated the last time.  

~*~

Chapter 13 – Awakenings

"Oh, please, Frodo, I am only trying to bathe you! Daisy?"

Primula's voice caught in her throat as her son began to struggle. He had been calm when they started his bath, watching her movements with curious eyes that would periodically unfocus and glaze over. He let her undress him and wrap him in a towel without a word, but when she'd bent to lower him into the water, he panicked. A soft cry rose in his throat and he clung to her desperately, as if terrified. Primula didn't know what to do - they'd bathed him since his accident, but this was the first time they'd tried to do so while he was somewhat conscious. The vigorous reaction frightened her.

"It's all right, sweet… Mumma has you. I won't let go… " She hugged her son to her and looked over her shoulder to where Daisy was coming around to help. "What ever is the matter with him now?!" she asked, the anxious tone of her voice providing a barb she could not conceal.

Daisy reached across the tub and added her arms to Primula's in supporting the small boy's body. "There, there, Frodo. We have you!" she said in a bright, cheerful voice. She looked up into Primula's worried face and smiled reassuringly. "He's still terribly dizzy, poor thing," she said with compassion for both mother and son in her voice. "It's probably hard for him to hang suspended over the water like that. He's got nothing under him, see?" The healer placed one hand under his head and the other under his bottom to support the child. She nodded to Primula and together they lowered him into the waiting bath. Frodo clung to his mother so tightly that it wasn't until he was still, settled on the firmness of the tub's bottom and his head lay cushioned by some towels that he began to relax. He opened his eyes again and, seeing Primula's face leaning close over him, gave a little sigh and snuggled against the towels. Primula transferred his death grip on her arm to the side of the tub and sat back shaking suds off her hands.

"Maybe I've pushed him more than I ought today," admitted Daisy. "He's still not good at being moved - that'll take more time, I think, but he's done so much better than I could've hoped I suppose it encourages me."

"Yes…" Primula picked up the pitcher of warm water and drizzled it carefully over Frodo's pale chest. "I do understand how remarkably he is recovering." She laughed but her dark brows kept their worried crease. "Still, I can't help wishing I would wake up one of these mornings to see him leap from the bed hale and hearty again." She laughed, but it was a forced little thing. "Foolish, aren't I?" Frodo closed his eyes and sighed, the warmth and flow of the water, the sound of his mother's voice and the fact that he was blessedly still again, comforting him.

Daisy smiled from the other side of the tub and reached for a flannel. "Well, you want to see him completely well - and I'll not say that's a fool's hope - but you must give him time." She carefully leaned Frodo's torso against her arm giving Primula the flannel and access to his back. "This was very serious, Primula. I'd not expect him to be even walking by the fall, despite his progress." She stroked his pitifully shorn head regretting the forsaken curls. "His poor little brain has had a nasty shock; it'll take some doing to get things back in order again."

Primula nodded. It was an assurance she had been given many times already but that didn't stop her from worrying whenever he became difficult. Daisy had assured them that his recovery had been remarkable - and that his injury could have been much worse than it turned out - but still Primula could not eradicate the seed of doubt; how would he have fared if another had treated him? She glanced guiltily at Daisy who crouched by the tub side cooing comfortingly into Frodo's ear. She was very grateful to the healer for saving her son's life, of course, but the longer he lingered in this state of shattered awareness, the more that doubt grew. Would Clearwater have cut a hole in her son's head? She worked the soap into a lather and spread it in slow circles across Frodo's back. The boy's tension eased further and he relaxed against Daisy's arm till the healer was supporting his whole weight. Primula rinsed him with another pitcher of warm, clean water and Daisy laid him carefully against the towels again.

Drogo had no such doubts about his choice of physicians - trusting Daisy implicitly - but he hadn't had Clearwater as a physician his whole life. He also didn't value Menegilda's opinion, but, despite herself, Primula did. She had looked up to her brother and his wife for too long to be able to completely disregard their feelings on the matter. She picked up the flannel again and began washing Frodo's legs. If only she could be as confident as her husband. It seemed ungrateful to question Daisy's practices, to expect more than the progress Frodo had made during the past week, but seeing her son still so seriously affected by the injury made her want to hold someone responsible. She wanted to shake them and ask them 'why' until her fury was satisfied. She felt helpless and angry, and unjust though she knew it was, some of that anger touched her friendship with Daisy.

She rinsed him again with the final pitcher full of rinse water and reached for another towel. Frodo's eyes were closed, his dark lashes damp and arrayed peacefully against his flushed cheek. He might have been asleep but Primula noted he still held tightly to the tub's side as if to keep a firm grasp on his spinning world. She stood, holding her arms out and Daisy lifted the boy out of the bath. He moaned in protest and opened his eyes again, seeking his mother. As skilled as Daisy was at handling him in this state, he still sought Primula for comfort. That felt oddly satisfying. For all her discomfort with his current state, his need for her was a reassuring constant. She wrapped the towel about him and hugged him close, carrying him over to the bed to carefully dry and dress him.

In the week since the fall Daisy had selflessly stayed with them in Brandy Hall so that she could be on call if Frodo developed the 'brain fever' or any other complication she had warned them about. Luckily, Frodo had escaped any of these terrifying maladies but he was not yet what Primula would have called healed. He was still listless and dazed, speaking to them after his first coherent 'Mum' as if from his dreams although with each passing day he showed signs of steady improvement. His eyes were now able to track and hold an object as it passed across his line of sight and he seemed to have moments of clarity, when his sharp little brows would furrow and he seemed to be trying desperately to focus. He sometimes seemed able to understand what was going on around him, but most of the time, he behaved as a sleepy child trapped just at the verge of waking.

The cut Daisy had made was almost healed; only the threads of her stitches still remained, sticking incongruously out of Frodo's flesh. Today they would be removed and Daisy would return home to her own family. Primula and Drogo had attended her instructions closely and had become competent to tend him in her absence. The healer would still be visiting daily to continue guiding them in his recovery but Primula could not help feeling relieved that she would have her little family to herself again. It would be one more step towards the normality she desperately wanted to regain.

But Frodo was hardly normal yet. It was as if he was an infant again for she needed to take care of all his needs. At first they had swaddled him but Primula had quickly learned to read the signs that said he needed the privy - just as she had when he was a fauntling. He wouldn't yet eat by himself but was beginning to show marked preferences for the thicker, heartier fare that Cook was preparing for them. He had even managed a soft lamb stew full of potatoes and leeks for that day's lunch and the satisfied smacking of his lips told her how much he had appreciated it. It soothed his mother's heart to see him eating heartily, but she also noticed a trend in his habits that subtly disturbed her; his favorites seemed to have changed. Bread pudding, which he had long preferred over any other food, was no longer as eagerly consumed as a steaming bowl of mushroom soup and the turnips that Frodo had always turned his nose up at were now readily accepted. The lethargy would be temporary, the confusion would lift - Daisy had assured her of these things - but Primula could not help feeling the shift in his preferences was an indication the accident and perhaps its radical treatment had really changed her son. Her reason knew it might, that such a traumatic incident was bound to leave some mark on him, but seeing even these innocuous signs of it filled her with an unreasoning fear. She felt as if his feet had suddenly been set on a dread path from which there was no turning. It was a fanciful notion, of course, but it made her desperate to have her son back exactly as he was before.

She toweled him off gently, her loving touch singling out each finger and toe for particular attention, and again marveled at the way his body had changed from the chubby little infant he had been. He still had the soft pad of baby fat on his cheeks and along his belly and softening the abruptness of his knobby knees, but elsewhere his limbs had outgrown the roundness of babyhood. He seemed half a babe, half a young hobbit boy - but it suited him somehow. His close-cropped hair also revealed the emerging angularity of his face and showcased his huge, expressive eyes. The dark brows above them began to haltingly crease, as if he was stirring and becoming irritated by her attentions. His nose wrinkled and he tried to roll onto his side seeming to want to go back to the sleep the warm bath had lulled him into.

One the greatest difficulties his caretakers had been faced with had been the fact that, other than the broken arm and gash on his face, his body had remained as strong as it always had been. If he didn't want Primula or Daisy to do something for him, he was fairly able to resist them - and the confusion of his mind made it difficult for him to understand they were trying to help.

"There, there, poppet. Mummy is only trying to dress you now!" she cooed. Her hand soothed his brow and he gave a sigh and relented, his unbroken arm coming up to rub his nose in a gesture that was so achingly normal that it brought tears to Primula's eyes. "Yes, my sweet, we'll be done in a moment and you can rest," she sniffed. "This has been a big day for you and now the stitches are coming out. Daisy says you have done so well that she's going to be able to go home. It will be you and Mummy and Da from now on just as it has always been." She leaned over and kissed his soft cheek drinking in his fresh washed little boy smell and smiling at the little frown of impatience that crossed his sleepy features. That was blazingly normal for him as well.

"I've been meaning to ask you about that," began Daisy hesitantly as Primula eased a clean nightshirt over Frodo's head. "My Feyland is coming by later to collect me but you know I'll be back tomorrow. And at any time, I'll come quick if you need. I'm not so worried about Frodo any more, he's doing so splendidly, but I'm wondering how you'll manage. It's an awful strain on the two of you, and if Drogo is called away again…"

Primula stiffened, suddenly uncomfortable and Daisy felt the barrier that had grown between rise again. "I am certain that will not be necessary," she assured the healer. "Drogo is not likely to be required again. It was a family emergency. Rory… Dodinas…" She flushed but quickly regained her composure. "The services of a solicitor were needed to settle a rather unique situation. I doubt my brothers will be in such a condition again. The matter is settled and as such, I would expect you not to speak of it again." Her tone was formal and, though not unkind, brooked no discussion. Daisy had lived in the Baggins' apartments for nearly a week, sharing their hopes and fears and providing them the benefit of her skills but she had never lost her awareness of the differences of their station. Drogo was rather cavalier about it and treated her intrusion with good humor, but Primula, as with every Brandybuck she had ever tended, retained a distance that Daisy found strangely reassuring. She had grown up in Buckland revering the Brandybuck family as the masters of the land. Scrutinizing them as closely as she had for the past days disquieted her. Perhaps it was because it was what she was used to, but she rather preferred not knowing some of the sordid details of their tightly interconnected family. It seemed easier to respect them when she wasn't privy to all their faults.

"Very well," Daisy curtsied to show that she had taken the entirety of Primula's meaning. "But you should take my advice, my lady, and accept help with Frodo whenever it's offered." Daisy shook her head firmly at the denial she knew was forthcoming. "You'll not be needing me so much, the boy's well on the mend now, but if you could, take on someone to help with the little things. It's as much for Frodo's sake as your own, Primula," she insisted. "I know you hate others seeing him like this, but getting him out, putting him in touch with new things and people can't do nothing but help. He has a lot of healing to do. Any little nudge you can give him'll help stir things up and exercise that brain of his."

Primula eyed her as if she wished the healer had asked for anything else, but Daisy knew her advice would be heeded. As much as the hobbit lady wanted to shield her family from inquisitive eyes and gossip, she wanted her son healed more. She would do as Daisy instructed.

"Right then. Why don't we take care of this last bit of business and I'll let you be?" Together they turned Frodo lengthwise of the bed so Daisy could have unfettered access to the left side of his head. He grumbled in protest at being disturbed and rolled onto his right side, unintentionally giving Daisy a clear field of view. "Yep, best do this quick while he's still sleepy. Shouldn't hurt, but all the same…" She leaned over and pushed the short, dark hair aside to reveal a tiny grey patch of skin where the hair had been shorn right down to the surface. The square cut was nearly healed over and the only thing that showed where the incision had been was the shiny white scar and the fine black threads. In a movement almost too quick for Primula to follow, Daisy snipped the small stitches pulled them out of Frodo's head. "There…" the healer breathed. "Those little holes will scab over and heal and you won't have no more worry about it."

"What about the hole you've cut into his skull?" asked Primula, concerned. "I expected you to do something for that at the very least!"

"Not much I can do, ma'am," said Daisy shaking her head. "He'll heal that up better than anything I could do in a few months time. The bone is already filling in a little. You can feel it under the scar." She ran her fingers over the spot on Frodo's head where she had performed the pressure relieving removal but Primula shook her head, shuddering.

"No, I will… take your word on it. If you say it will heal, I believe it. I was only…" She blushed, embarrassed. "It still unnerves me to think that there is naught between my son's brain and the outside world than a layer of skin. And with him still so unbalanced... What if he falls or bumps his head again?"

"That's another reason I suggested you take the help," Daisy answered seriously. "He's getting his strength back fast, but his reason's coming slower. He might be a small boy, but if he starts to fight you over something, you'll need to get him controlled right quick before he does himself some harm. You know how fast these youngsters can move! Lor, my Mae can be quick as a wink when she puts her mind to it. Luckily, she's good as gold most of the time, but Frodo doesn't quite understand what's happened to him yet. I don't know if he'll be a problem, but I suspect he'll want to be up and about long before he's ready to. I'd line up some folks to aid you in case you need them - preferably ones old enough to be responsible but young enough to still be quick. There's no harm in being prepared. And I'll be here in a twinkling if you need - but, well,…" Daisy's cheek flushed. "My husband's been asking when I was coming home and all. He doesn't think it seemly for me to be staying here with you fine folks."

At that Primula smiled and this time it was a truly sincere and grateful one. "I know it's been hard on you," she said softly. "And I haven't helped, I am sure. You must think me some type of ill-tempered monster the way I have snapped and been so horrible to everyone. You've given above and beyond what you might have and I do want you to know how greatly we appreciate your work."

"Oh, ma'am," Daisy assured her, her face flushing from the heartfelt praise. "It's nothing. I've dealt with all types of parents in my line. None of them're too chipper when their child's hurt. You've acted no worse than others have before you. You pay it no mind." She patted Primula's hand warmly. "I really do understand. You see to it Frodo gets better, you take care of him and I'll never think a cross word about you. I promise."

Primula looked down at her sleeping son. The deepening shades of evening had thrown his face into shadow, but his precious form drowsed contentedly under the dim whiteness of his bed shirt. She stroked the gentle curve of his shoulder. His firm solidity and steady breaths, his mere presence and steady improvement were tangible evidence of all that this healer had given her. When he was calm like this, Primula wondered why ever she doubted that Daisy had performed a miracle. She leaned over her son and placed a kiss on his cheek.

"You have my most earnest word that I will do just that," she promised.

~*~

Things were getting better, but he was still dizzy and confused. His head didn't ache so much and gratitude for that gift was all he could feel for a long time.

It came to him that several days must have passed,... Or at least he thought they must have. He remembered sunlight through his open window and then seeing his mother by his bedside as moonlight filtered into the room. He remembered the smell of food and feeling contentedly full but he could not recall eating. His memories were oddly jumbled and he was not certain if they had happened in anything like the order he recalled them.

One coherent thought that tickled the back of his mind and coalesced there as his reason began to reassert itself was the question of what had happened to him? He could remember a morning in Brandy Hall eating grape jam on his biscuits and giggling as he'd darted to avoid his mother's dampened handkerchief and her attempts to wipe the remains of them from his face. Then the scene faded into a blaze of light like stepping from a dark smial into the brightness of midday, but there was literally nothing, no memory at all, beyond it. His next awareness had been here in his own bed with the world spinning mercilessly and his stomach just beginning to identify hunger from the omnipresent nausea of motion. It was hunger that woke him this time too, for little else could stir him from the blissful respite from vertigo that only sleep could provide.

It was dark again. He opened his eyes and could tell from the moonlight glinting off the edges of furniture that it must have been deep night. Stars glittered in the patch of velvet sky above his bed but there was no sound to be heard but the soft whisper of breath as other hobbits slept nearby. He stirred and regretted it the instant his fragile hold on stability faltered. He whimpered and closed his eyes again, but the tiny murmur had been enough to catch a pair of loving ears and drag their owner to wakefulness. He heard the rustling of sheets and a grunt as someone heaved a large, tired body from the bed to shuffle quickly, if stumblingly, to his side.

"What's this?" came a sleepy voice that flowed over his mind like a soothing blanket. "You are going to wake your mother with your fretting, and we can't have that..." A warm hand gently stroked his brow and he felt the creases that discomfort had put there ease.

"Da..." Frodo sighed, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. The faint odor of pipeweed and musk filled the space between them and he drew it in with a deep, satisfied breath. "Da, you're... home!" His voice was whispered and halting but the relief in it was clear. His father drew in his own ragged breath, struggling to hold back the cry that sudden, overwhelming joy threatened to elicit from him.

"Yes...ss..." he said through tears. "I was gone today, but I am back. You noticed! Oh, Frodo!" Drogo, trembling with elation but, careful not to jostle him, climbed onto the small bed and wrapped his great arms around his son's prostrate body. In the warmth of that beloved embrace, Frodo's dizziness was eased and he struggled to lift his free arm to hug his father back. A stifled but delighted laughter warmed Frodo's cheek and Drogo pressed a trembling, reverent kiss on his son's temple. "I'm back," he whispered lovingly into his child's ear. "I will always come back to you."

Frodo smiled softly though his eyes remained closed. He sighed, contented, and settled against his father, the feeling of being safe and loved beyond measure easing both his heart and mind. Drogo made no sound but Frodo could feel tears on the cheek his father held pressed against Frodo's brow. They laid together in silent joy for a long time, each taking in the warm presence of the other, until at last Frodo was forced to speak. He could deny his need no longer.

"Da?" he whispered softly as if loath to break the spell of succor those loving arms had cast. Drogo's embrace tightened briefly and Frodo could feel the muscles of his face moving into a broad smile as if even the child's halting and as yet slurred speech was music to his ears.

"Yes, my dearest boy?" he sighed. His son opened his crystal bright eyes and his father's torment-weary heart rejoiced at the sight of him at last alert and aware.

"I'm...hungry..."

TBC

Fear

by Ariel (lgreenaw@kcnet.org)

Rating: PG-13 for medical details and high angst

Warnings: This fic is rated for graphic medical details, contains some violence (fights) and hints at darker themes, but contains no slash or sexual themes.  

Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkien's - I make no profit but my own pleasure from using them in fiction.  

Story description: Falls can be deadly - especially if you are a very young Frodo Baggins.  A brooding cousin and a fabulous necklace form the backdrop for this tale of angst and heartache, dire injury and long healing.

~*~

Chapter 14 - Maneuvers "You should have called me to tend him before this, Menegilda."

Dody blinked as well as his still stiff eyelids could perform the function and peered up at the keeper of the voice that had disturbed his slumber.

"There were… complications, Doctor. My husband was very unwilling to have you come at all but I prevailed upon him." Menegilda moved into Dody's sight and leaned over her nephew, smiling kindly. "Young Dody has had enough difficulty in his life without also being permanently disfigured because he was not been seen to by a proper physician." She placed her warm hand on Dody's still bruised one. "Wake up, my dear! I have someone here to see you. You know Doctor Clearwater. He is going to examine you and make sure you haven't got anything more worrisome than bruising. Come along, child. I'll help you."

Dody closed his eyes again and sighed. For the week he had been staying with his aunt and uncle, he had done little but sleep. Any other venture, even eating and relieving himself, was a painful trial. He rolled to his side and with the aid of both adults, struggled to a sitting position. Everything still hurt, but at least the swelling that had stiffened his joints and closed his eyes to mere slits had gone down. He dropped his hands into his lap and focused unenthusiastically on Clearwater's face.

The doctor's eyes had a curiously bright appearance that unsettled Dody. He seemed to be taking in the condition of his patient with swift, calculating glances and Dody was almost surprised not to see a smile on his face. Dody's notice was in turn recognized and all semblance of interest vanished from the doctor's face so quickly that Dody wondered if he'd only imagined it.

"You've gotten yourself into quite a mess here, young Master Brandybuck," cooed Clearwater with nothing but soft concern in his voice. "Let's see if we can't take a look at you properly." Menegilda bent to unbutton Dody's shirt, gently pushing away the boy's own hands as they rose slowly to the task.

"You let me, dear. Just sit quiet and let us make sure you are alright." Menegilda was very patient and carefully slipped the shirt off Dody's arms. The doctor's low gasp of surprise might have sounded horrified to other ears, but to Dody, who could still perceive the carefully masked zeal in the Doctor's manner, it sounded sickeningly covetous. Cool fingers touched his side, tentatively probing the still livid bruises and Dody suppressed the urge to flinch.

The doctor was thorough but said nothing during the examination. He then asked Dody to remove his trousers. The boy hesitated and Menegilda came forward thinking it due to his fingers' difficulty with the buttons. Clearwater looked up at Dody and for an instant the boy was pinned by the most calculating look he had ever received. Clearwater knew exactly what had caused these bruises and that Dody knew he knew. Dody had the sudden impression of a dark well into which information was gathered, carefully analyzed and stored - but to what purpose he could not begin to guess. He shivered as Menegilda laid him back down on his cot and removed his pants and under-things. He curled in on himself, feeling horribly exposed, much more so than he might have felt naked in any other company.

"There, there, my boy!" soothed Menegilda. "You have to cooperate. The doctor won't hurt you and he needs to make certain you will be alright."

"Perhaps a sheet?" suggested Clearwater, with just a touch of amusement. Dody looked up at the doctor again, his face flushed with discomfiture and sudden anger. He knew he was being toyed with but he was also keenly aware that he was no match for Clearwater in this strangely serious game. He wondered how Menegilda could not see what a dangerous person she had allowed into her rooms.

"Why Dody, I bathed you when you were this big, and the doctor attended your birth! Come now…" She settled a throw over his hips and stroked his hair. "There's no reason to be ashamed before either of us. I would not have called Dr. Clearwater if I could not be certain of his discretion in this matter." She smiled simply at the doctor and Dody felt ill. No, she did not see it. Not at all.

After the rest of the examination was over, Dody was allowed to dress. His aunt and the doctor retired to the parlor to discuss his condition and Dody slowly pulled on his dressing gown. He would have preferred a bath first. He felt soiled. He could still feel the doctor's hands on him, probing places he would much rather had been left alone and whether it was his own embarrassment or some subtle game of the doctor's that made the memory of his touch linger, Dody did not know. He only understood that he had been weighed and measured, tested and catalogued by a hobbit he was defenseless against. He felt very much like he had when dealing with his father and the realization that he had not completely escaped such humiliations chilled him.

He stood, wobbling a little until his strained muscles began to cooperate with each other, and drew the dressing gown closed tightly. He walked towards the door and into the parlor. They had not said he should stay in his room and if they were discussing him, Dody felt it his right to be in attendance.

"It's been one thing after another this week," Menegilda sighed opening her elaborate fan with a click and scenting the fabric of its webbing from a vial on the table. "First my darling Frodo, and now Dody too!" She waved the fan briskly at her face and the smell of lavender, the one Dody always associated with her, wafted towards him. "There are precious few children in the hall right now. One would think those responsible for the ones we have would be more attentive to them." She leveled a look at Dody, clearly suggesting that his own father was at great fault for inattentive behavior, but Dody took an entirely other meaning from the criticism in her words.

"Frodo?" he croaked, his voice still a bit rusty from the abuse his throat had taken. "I… I was there when they found him," he explained, trying desperately to avoid looking at Clearwater's swiftly heedful face. The doctor was shrewd and Dody had no doubt the older hobbit would perceive his guilty interest in an instant. "In all the… excitement, I'd nearly forgotten about him being hurt. How is he?" In truth, Dody's thoughts had been fairly preoccupied with his cousin's condition, but Menegilda had not brought the subject up and Dody had been afraid to ask. He was, by that point, fairly certain that Frodo still lived. If the child had died from his injuries, Menegilda would have talked of nothing else.

Clearwater laughed bitterly. "I should like to know that myself, young Master Brandybuck, but I am forbidden to see him!"

"Now, now, doctor," said Menegilda. "You can't be blaming yourself for that. I know it seems their decision was ill advised, but Frodo is reportedly doing much, much better. Primula says he's even feeding himself now, though she's not allowed any of us in to see for ourselves.

"Hmph, yes…" grumbled the doctor. "I'd feel much more comfortable seeing his progress myself as well. I may not be the child's physician, but I've been with this family for 50 years! I am concerned about all its members."

"I know you are, Albarus, and that is what I admire most about you! You are kind and caring far above the call of your profession. We Brandybucks are lucky to have such a devoted servant. I hope you know we realize and appreciate that fact."

If Menegilda didn't notice the way Clearwater stiffened at the term 'servant', Dody did. It seemed oddly incongruous that anything could rattle the doctor's immanently cool façade, but the signs of irritation were wiped from his manner as swiftly as they had appeared. Clearwater, benign again, cocked an eyebrow at Dody. The boy couldn't tell if the expression was a challenge, a warning or just plain curiosity.

"Perhaps they'll let you in to see him, eh, Master Dody? Who could possibly mind one of the boys who found him coming back to see how he was doing? Perhaps you can give me an objective report on his condition? You seem a bright and observant youngster. Do you think you could do that for me?"

Before Dody could think of a reply, Menegilda clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, doctor!" she cried. "What a splendid idea! Primula was just saying to me the other day that Daisy Burrows suggested she find some young person to help with Frodo until he gets on his feet again. Someone who could spell them and give the poor dear a chance to get away and relax for change. When he is a bit more recovered, I think Dody would be a splendid choice! It's his cousin after all, and who better to care for family? Dody is free until lessons start in the fall. It's a perfectly splendid idea." She laid her hand on Clearwater's knee. "You are so clever, doctor!" she cooed. Dody felt ill.

"Hmm… Well, I must say, the more I hear about that young lass' treatment of the boy, the more respect I have to give her. Still…" Clearwater looked up at Dody thoughtfully. The tween could almost see the wheels turning as the intricate machinery of his mind worked. "I would love to see his condition for myself. I feel so helpless in this situation. I realize he is not my patient, but if anything were to happen to him, or to Primula, that I could have prevented, I shall be beside myself with guilt." His eyes narrowed. "What do you say to the idea, my lad? Would you be up to being my eyes and ears? It would be a kindness to poor Primula, I dare say, and wouldn't do Frodo any harm either. I would expect you to keep your eyes and ears open and tell me exactly how the boy fares - what he is and isn't doing yet. That would at least give me peace of mind and keeping an active boy in his sickbed for the summer would keep you out of trouble too." He winked at Dody, but there was no trace of cheery warmth in it. He wanted a spy, and Dody had been offered and judged suitable.

"I… I know nothing of caring for…" Dody stammered, feeling the heat rising to his face again. He felt horribly uncomfortable at being maneuvered but he did want to see how his cousin fared. Part of the reason was to assuage his own feelings of guilt, of course, but Dody still feared what Frodo might remember and say. Helping his aunt might be a way to atone for the actions that caused Frodo's fall while determining precisely what the boy did and didn't recall. Strangely, Dody no longer felt quite so panicked that Frodo might reveal him. It was as if his father's beating had been punishment for the crime. He still felt bad that Frodo had gotten hurt and didn't want anyone to realize that it was his cast that had precipitated the injury, but the gnawing, aching guilt no longer plagued him. He had paid his due in blood - even if no other realized it. He wasn't completely free of his sense of responsibility but felt he could now face the consequences of his actions. It might be like rubbing salt into a still gaping wound, but it would not destroy him. "I mean, surely someone more knowledgeable would be better," he concluded culturing reluctance into his response. He didn't want to appear too suspiciously eager.

"Perhaps they would," frowned Menegilda. "But it is unlikely anyone more knowledgeable would be allowed in to see him. That upstart Drogo has refused to let Bethany back near the child and she's been his nurse since he was four." Menegilda's fan waved more rapidly in her irritation. "The poor dear is beside herself. We've all told her that it wasn't her fault, even Drogo said so finally, but he's refused to ever let her care for Frodo again." Her fan moved faster. "Stubborn, willful, prideful hobbit… He's broken the old dear's heart, he has, but there's no changing his mind." She shook off her displeasure and took a deep breath. "But still, I want someone from our family in there seeing to things. I want to hear how Frodo is really doing, not just listen to platitudes from Drogo and that Burrows youngster. I think you would be a good choice, dear. You've got the time, and if you don't mind my saying so, you could use a few lessons in empathy." She cocked her brow at him. "Considering your parentage, it's not a characteristic you'd come by naturally." Menegilda snapped her fan closed and sat regally back in her chair. "Caring for a sick child should teach you that, at least."

'Like a bitter medicine,' Dody thought. 'Unpleasant to endure, but worth the relief.' He did not like the fact that Doctor Clearwater was sitting back contentedly in his chair, as if the events playing out before him had all been part of a well-orchestrated plot. He did not like his aunt's seeming blindness to being used, nor did he like the feeling of being all too aware he was being maneuvered as well. But there was little he could do about any of it, especially if he was to keep his secrets hidden. If he played along, and did as he was told, he could meet his own ends without even the doctor becoming the wiser, but he would have to be very, very careful. Dody looked up, schooling his own features to be as expressionless as Clearwater's were. He was no match for the doctor in this manipulative game and he knew it, but he could also recognize this as an opportunity.

"You'll suggest Dody as help for Primula?" Clearwater asked.

Menegilda nodded happily, obviously content that this proposal would tie some 'ends' together. "Oh, I will! I think it is a marvelous idea and I am sure Primula will think so too. It's Drogo Baggins who'll be the hard one. He's unpredictable and sullen. I never know which way that hobbit will lean." She shook her head in disapproval. "But since his precious Daisy Burrows suggested it, perhaps he will be easier to convince than we think. I'll set to work on it straight away." She smiled at Dody and then, as if she had just then noticed her battered nephew was standing in her parlor in nothing but his dressing gown, cried, "Land sakes, child! You don't need to hang about in your condition! Back to bed with you! I'll call to the kitchen for some chamomile tea for elevenses but you can take it in your room. You need to build up your strength. We will need you healed and fit as soon as possible. Off you go! Quick now!"

With that Dody retired to the quiet and comforting darkness of his room.

~*~

They told him he was doing marvelously and that he was recovering from the fall faster than they'd ever imagined, but it was not anything like fast enough for Frodo. He was bored and the boredom had turned him sullen and uncooperative. He longed to get out of his bed. He could hear the cook's children laughing in the sunlight outside of his window and wished he could play with them but even had he been allowed, he could not go out. Just sitting up caused his head to spin uncontrollably. Walking was, as yet, impossible.

He spent his days being tenderly cared for by his parents and occasionally the nice lady hobbit with the bright green eyes would come and look at him. His mother kept him washed and dressed in his finest as if he were going out but they never left their apartments. She would look at him with worry and sorrow in her eyes and that upset Frodo. He did not want to make his mother sad and yet he did not know what he could do to make her happy again. He thought that perhaps if he showed his mother that he was getting better, tried to sit up and even walk, she would be happy again, but though his father delighted in his attempts, his mother seemed even more upset by them. Frodo was confused and more than a little hurt. He wanted to please her but the only thing that didn't upset his mother was when he laid quietly on his bed and rested...and that bored him to tears.

The only good thing about being in bed all day was that his father could spend time with him. Drogo had not been at his desk once since Frodo woke and, instead of pouring over contracts and dusty old records, he would read to Frodo from great leather bound history books and slender volumes of lore that his cousin Bilbo had translated from the elvish. Frodo loved the stories and loved hearing his father's comforting baritone measuring out the words as if they were a fine draught to savor. But even listening to the tales reminded the boy that there was still something terribly wrong with him. He had difficulty following the stories. His thoughts would wander and he could not picture the tale in his mind as he used to be able to. Events referenced in them that Frodo thought he should remember seemed always at the edge of his memory. It frustrated him and, though he was loath to show it, frightened him as well.

He would still become terribly dizzy if he moved too quickly. His head felt like a great glass ball atop his shoulders that he needed to move carefully lest it shatter. He no longer had headaches all the time, but if he tried to remain awake for too long, or pushed himself to try and stand, they would return, blinding him and often making him cry out in pain. Those were the times that upset his mother the most. She would become horribly anxious and would force nasty medicines down his throat. Frodo quickly learned to push himself only as far as he could before the headaches returned, and so thereby avoided any of the bitter teas his mother seemed so fond of giving him.

One day when the green-eyed lady was visiting, she brought someone new with her. A little girl. She was older than Frodo, but still young enough that she might have been a playmate. There were few children in Brandy Hall but Frodo did not recognize her. She peered from behind her mother's skirts and stared at him with innocent curiosity. Frodo wanted to talk with the little girl, but the grown-ups were busy asking him silly questions. They asked if he remembered what happened to him, which he didn't, and how many fingers they were holding up, which he could count, but for some reason the word for that many fingers escaped him. He became irritated and fussy and his head began to pound. All he wanted was to talk to the little girl. It had been ages since anyone new had come to see him and the grown-ups were making him too miserable to converse properly. He felt like crying, but stubbornly refused to in front of the little girl, and that made his head pound even more.

Finally, they let him alone to rest. The green-eyed lady turned to speak to Frodo's parents and the little girl was left at his bedside. Frodo stared at her, dully, no longer interested in talking, only wanting his aching head to feel better. The girl came forward and placed her hand on Frodo's brow, mimicking what she had probably seen her mother do countless times. Frodo thought the girl's play-acting was silly, but he had to admit her warm hand did make him feel a little better. He sighed and the girl looked at him, suddenly serious, and said, in a voice that was an obvious attempt to sound like her mother's, "You'll be alright," and for some odd reason, Frodo believed her.

After that, the green eyed lady and the little girl left. Mother and Da sat down in the parlor just outside his alcove, conversing. Frodo listened to the words, finding comfort for his aching head in the soft familiar voices, but their meanings were mostly lost to him.

"I'm not sure what your brother's thinking," growled his father. "But I like Dodinas' boy little more than I like Dodinas. He's a moody child and I'd not put it past him to be cruel. I must get back to work, I've delayed my trip to Michel Delving as long as I can, and I agree you'll need some help with Frodo while I am gone, but I'd sooner choose another to aid you."

"Well, he's not the one I'd have picked either," came his mother's weary voice. "But most of my nieces and nephews are apprenticed already or have duties that I wouldn't feel right imposing on. Dody won't be going back to the mercantile - Rory won't let him within reach of his father again - and until they find him a suitable situation, he is available." She sighed. "But it's as much for Dody as it is for Frodo. You didn't see that boy when Marietta brought him down." Primula paused. "He'd been beaten near to death," she whispered, horror evident in her voice. "I'd have not thought any hobbit would have it in him to do that to his own flesh and blood." She sounded so sad and pitiful that Frodo almost felt like crying himself. He turned towards his parents and saw them sitting at table with their tea. Their backs were half turned from him. A single trail of smoke drifted up from the pipe in Drogo's hand. Primula had her sewing draped, unattended, across her lap. It was a scene that filled him with feelings of ease and security. Their familiar movements; the way Drogo held his mother's hand and the way Primula casually stroked his father's arm, soothed Frodo's head.

"'Like father, like son'... So they say." Drogo took a sip of his tea. "If that kind of violence is in Dodinas, who's to say it isn't in Dody as well? Primula, I am not at all keen on this. I won't forbid you from bringing Dody here, but I do wish there was another option."

Primula nodded. "I know, but I have a feeling it will be alright. Menegilda said something that I thought was very perceptive. She said 'there is nothing better for driving self pity out of a body than learning compassion for another.' Though Dody's life has given him reason to feel sorry for himself, dwelling on it is probably what's made him so unpleasant. He needs to learn to care for something other than himself. Menegilda also suggested that you might be a better role model as a father than Dodinas." Primula laughed at Drogo's ironic grin. "Not much of a compliment, but, considering Menegilda's opinion of you, it's almost high praise." Drogo snorted stubbornly around the stem of his pipe, but did not counter her. "And I'll be here with him," Primula continued. "I will be well able to judge how things are going. You know I'd not leave Frodo in any situation I was not totally comfortable with. I think having Dody here to help me will be good for both boys, but we will see how things develop."

They sat in companionable silence for a long while after that. Frodo's eyes drifted towards shutting. The only sounds in the room were the crackle of the fireplace, the occasional clink of a teacup and the soft rustle of fabric as his mother sewed. At last, as Frodo was just about to fall asleep, he saw his mother put down her sewing.

"How long will you be gone?" she whispered.

Drogo looked at her for a long moment. "No more than a month, I'd say. I will make the trip as short as I can manage, but I must see to our investments. I'd rather not live on your brother's generosity any longer than necessary."

She nodded and stood, putting her sewing on the table and looking down into her husband's face. Frodo's eyes were almost closed but he could see the way hers glittered in the firelight. She bent and kissed Drogo in that way that told Frodo he would soon have the curtains of his alcove drawn to. He closed his eyes the rest of the way and snuggled down in his bed, feeling safe and as near to normal as he had felt in over a week. He was asleep a second later.

TBC

Dody had always considered Brandy Hall to be akin to a rabbit warren. Its many doors and windows peeked out of the skirts of Buck Hill from the north, west and south facing slopes, looking for all the world like round, brightly colored dens.  Unlike most smials, Brandy Hall had several levels of living space piled on top of one another. The smials on the lowest story were the deepest and their dark, brick lined tunnels ran almost to the center of the hill.  These were used mainly for storage, but at the edge of the level were many of the private quarters - small apartments where some of the Brandybucks' more distant relations and those of relatively lower social status within the family lived. The great hall was on this level, just behind the grand entry doors, as were the kitchens and servant's quarters, the pantries and wine cellars, laundry rooms and a great bath where even the poorest hobbit in the hall could find a hot tub and a slip of soap to bathe with.   

The next level up was where most of the families with children stayed, when there were children in Brandy Hall, and those who were just coming of age and felt the need to be out on their own.  This layer was supported from below by the strong brick of the lower smials' walls and supports of timber and stone that reached from the lowest levels all the way up through the hill.  The second tier was surrounded on its three sides by a broad, intensively gardened terrace that had been built up by dumping the soil excavated from the creation of the second tier on top of the tunnels that made up the first.  These gardens were generally of a practical nature.  Potatoes, peas, beans and tomatoes grew in crowded profusion along stakes, stick trellises and quaint wattle fences. Comfrey, thyme, roses and mint, raspberries and tea filled every square inch that wasn't already covered in some other sort of useful or edible vegetation.  The whole place smacked of practical prosperity. 

The third and final tier was where the most powerful Brandybucks lived. It too had an intensively managed terrace laid over the top of the tier below it but these gardens exuded wealth.  They sported arbors of grape and honeysuckle, benches, little pools filled with water lilies and artfully designed chalk lined paths that meandered throughout the terrace.  These were the gardens that those who had the time to simply enjoyed.  Above the highest tier was the crest of Buck Hill and the old forest of oak and beech that covered it.  The smials of this uppermost level were also the most luxurious, with rich paneling and elegant tile floors, large round windows and huge brightly painted doors.  When you lived in this tier you knew without any question you were at the pinnacle of society, for nowhere in all of Buckland was a more prestigious place to call home.   

That was why Dody had always suspected his stay in his aunt's residence was only a temporary situation.  He might have been Rory Brandybuck's nephew but his father did not rate very highly among old Gorbadoc's children.  Dodinas's stubbornness and ill temper had driven himself and his family to a dwelling on the side of the hill proper; to get away from the cloying family, Dodinas had said, but Dody suspected it was to avoid being given apartments that would have more clearly illustrated his father's lack of status.  Today Menegilda was taking him down a level - to where Primula and Drogo Baggins were staying - and Dody wondered how long it would be before she 'gifted' him with a dwelling of his own, somewhere down on the first level, he surmised.  He gave it a week. 

"You are to be on your best behavior, Dody," Menegilda threw over her shoulder as she strode determinately down the corridor.  "You are to do EVERYTHING Primula asks of you.  Drogo will be there today to assure himself that you will be acceptable as an aide and I don't want you to even THINK about being sullen or cross.  I don't want you spoiling all the work the doctor and I have done on your behalf because your temper got the better of you.  This is an opportunity for you Dody.  Do well here and we might be able to find an apprenticeship for you.  You have a rather bad reputation to live down and whether you realize it or not, this is your last chance to do so." 

They walked on in silence for a while, Dody following his aunt's confident stride docilely.  It being after second breakfast, they passed few other hobbits along the way.  Dody was fairly sure his aunt had planned their departure for the middle of a fine working day to take advantage of the deserted hall.  Dody was still bruised even two weeks after the beatings.  The markings on his face and neck were less obvious than they had been but neither Menegilda nor Dody wanted to have to provide explanation for them.  In the darkened smial, they could be mistaken for a shadow, or smudge of dirt to the few hobbits they might pass by.   

At the door to Primula and Drogo's apartments, Menegilda stopped, straightened her gown and glanced back at Dody.  Her mouth turned up at the corner in what she might have hoped was an approving smile, but Dody could see the skepticism in it.  He looked at his feet and sighed.  At least skepticism was better than the clear disapproval she might once have shown him.  This was his last chance to show some quality if indeed he had ever possessed any. 

Menegilda's brisk knock was answered by a tall, rather generously proportioned hobbit that Dody recognized as Drogo Baggins.  He welcomed Dody's aunt with a gracious formality that suggested there was little love lost between them and Menegilda swept into the smial with Dody in tow.  She seemed unfazed by Drogo's less than genuine warmth and cast her eyes around the small apartment quickly, searching out her nephew. 

"Where is my darling boy?" she cried as she spied Primula seated by a small alcove on the far wall.  Primula rose and Dody could see her smile towards Menegilda had real affection in it.  The two ladies hugged and Menegilda then leaned over the bed that filled the alcove, cooing and touching the cheek of the child that lay there. 

Dody held back, unsure what to do with himself until he was called. Drogo came around to stand beside him and Dody glanced sidelong at the taller hobbit.  He had never considered his aunt's husband before but suddenly it seemed to Dody that Drogo was a very powerful looking individual.  He was broad shouldered like Dody's father, but instead of the sharp edges that labor lent to Dodinas' frame, Drogo was rounded at the corners.  He had bright, ruddy cheeks and warm brown eyes that seemed could twinkle with merriment or seethe with wrath.  He wore a bright yellow waistcoat, a crimson kerchief tucked into the pocket, and a warm, chestnut colored woolen jacket over it.  His manner was cordial and spoke of a gentle upbringing, rather like he had spent much more time with books than moving sacks of grain or bartering with farmers.  He was a creature most unlike any that Dody had encountered. Despite his family's affluence, the Brandybuck clan had always been practical, not much given over to the airs and finery that families such as the Bagginses or even the Tooks were known for.   

He shifted a little away from Drogo, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Here was a father, he realized.  Frodo's father, not his own, but still a person who played a father's role in his family.  The thought unexpectedly chilled Dody and it came to him that he was very glad Drogo was going to be away.  Life had taught Dody that fathers were mercurial and violent, and though he knew not all were like his own, his recent experience gave him a prejudice against any unfamiliar hobbit who filled such a role.  

Dody turned instead to Primula.  He had always considered his aunt uncommonly beautiful.  She had the face of a Took, a family resemblance she shared with both her son and Dody himself, though unlike many of that line, she had hair as dark as midnight that spilled in a tumbling cascade down her back.  Her eyes were bright blue under dark lashes and her full lips were as red as summer berries. She was dressed in her finest to greet them - a dress of sunny yellow scattered with green flowers and a lovely embroidered bodice over it.  Her slender form stood behind Menegilda, bent over her son's bed with genuine and loving concern.  She was every inch a mother, as lovely as his own had been or perhaps even more so.  Her manner captivated Dody for he could see in her what he had lost and for just a moment the sad, motherless boy felt what it might have been like to lie quietly on the bed while her soft white hands caressed his brow.   

A lump formed in Dody's throat but he angrily clamped down on the sorrow that was rising.  She was not his mother, he scolded himself.  She would never stroke his brow with loving concern so he had best not even imagine it.  She would never hold him close and sing silly songs that only the two of them knew.  She would never look at him with eyes that really saw what he was and all that he could be.  The only one in the world who could have done those things for him was gone forever.  Dody stiffened, blinking rapidly to stem the tears that threatened.  Those were things he would never know again so he had better just get used to that fact. 

His attention at last rested on Frodo and Dody's heart was not eased. The child looked terrible.  He was very pale and his previously wild locks had been shorn back to a rumor of their previous exuberance.  Over his brow was a still livid bruise and his eye sockets were deep purple pits cut by the line of his dark lashes.  He was protesting Menegilda's attentions, her clucking and cooing would have annoyed Dody as well, and his movements seemed odd; jerky, hesitant and uncoordinated - as if he had to think through every movement. 

There was still a splint on the boy's right arm and the last scabs of almost healed cuts crisscrossed the unbruised portions of his face.  He looked far worse than he had just after the fall and, Dody realized, far worse than he had expected.  The older boy shivered feeling his pity overpower his fear of being found out.  He had been the cause of this tragedy.  Frodo Baggins might have once seemed an annoyingly cheerful inordinately fortunate child, but he certainly did not deserve this comeuppance.   

"No, ma!  Ma!"  Frodo's little voice protested as Menegilda tried to pry open his eyes.  The boy's speech had an odd lisp that Dody felt sure was a result of his injury.  It sounded as if his lips were too lazy to get out of the way and, as with his other movements, he had to think through each coordinating muscle before engaging in an action.  It was an odd sounding voice - still light and childlike, but oddly damaged.  It reminded Dody chillingly of the strangled cries of a snared rabbit.   

"Child, I just want to see that you are all right!" Menegilda huffed indignantly.  "I want to look into your eyes and know in my heart that you're truly on the mend.  Open your eyes for your auntie and ease her troubles, please?  For your auntie."  

"Mene..." Primula sighed.  "Please don't push him.  He's gone through so much already.  Just let him rest." 

Menegilda sat back and pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.  "He looks awful, Primula, and I am frightened.  There's something not right about him.  You say he is doing better, but if this is better, then I am glad you didn't let us see him earlier.  I merely want to have him look at me.  The eyes are the windows to the soul, you know.  I'd be comforted if I could see his... I'd know...."  She looked up at Primula and Dody was a little taken aback to see the genuine fear that was written on her face.  He'd always seen his aunt as a rather showy, self absorbed person whose emotions were mainly theater to gain the advantage that she wanted, but here he saw the depth of her real concern... And it was expressed towards Frodo.   

Though he still pitied the boy's condition, another feeling was creeping into Dody's heart.  It was one he had always had a measure of when considering his blessed cousin, but which had, of late, been silenced by the child's unfortunate circumstance.  It was jealousy.  He might have been responsible for this injury but Frodo had a living and loving mother, a father who probably didn't beat him and also seemed to have gained his aunt's genuine concern and regard; something Dody, despite his being nearly beaten to death by his father, had never engendered. The feeling pooled in Dody's heart, vying with his guilt, and fed the cold rage that was still at the core of his being.   

"I want to have a talk with you, son," said Drogo in a soft voice.  Dody started, guiltily, but followed as Drogo led him out of the parlor into a smaller, adjoining room.  "Sit down," the older hobbit said, gesturing towards a chair near the fireplace.  Dody sat.  His feelings of discomfort with this large, sternly formal hobbit must have shown on his face for Drogo looked at him for a long moment as he filled his pipe. "I've not given my approval for this yet," he began, his eyes roving over Dody's bruised features.  "But I'll agree with my wife that she's going to need aid and that you've the time to spare and the need to be kept from mischief."  Drogo puffed on his pipe thoughtfully.  "I can also see you've had a cruel time these past few weeks."  He said nothing more for a while and Dody fidgeted.  "It seems to me," Drogo began again.  "That a body who's had bad things happen to him can do one of two things.  He can take that bad into his heart and spew it forth on those around him or he can learn from it, reject the bad and keep it from ever harming another being like it did him."  Drogo chewed on the pipe stem for a moment.  "You've been of the former variety, Dody. You've made others as miserable as you are and become a right insufferable youngster.  Do you think it's right that you would spread and encourage the kind of misery that you've been privy to?" 

Dody swallowed, fear making him feel very small.  He wasn't certain what point Drogo was trying to make or how to react, how to respond to these words.  He felt caught and vulnerable.  With his own father, he knew, he would have agreed, said anything to appease him just so that Dodinas would grunt and leave him alone, but Drogo was an unknown quantity and Dody didn't know what the older hobbit was expecting of him.   

"No, sir..." he whispered at last, knowing his safest route lay in giving Drogo as much of the truth as he could.   

"No indeed," agreed Drogo.  "It's easy to give back cruelty for cruelty, but that's the coward's way, Dody.  It takes courage to turn away from anger but the rewards of such courage are incalculable."  He put his pipe down and leaned forward.  "You're of a great line of courageous hobbits, boy.  I know that fire is in you, I can see it.  You've had a bad run, but there's a good person inside of you who's only to be given a chance to come out.  I'm asking you to give that good a chance here. This is your opportunity to rise above your misfortunes and show that you've got that Brandybuck courage in full measure.  Do you think you can do that?" 

Dody was very quiet as Drogo's words tickled at the back of his mind. Despite his fear and discomfort the meaning of them touched something inside him.  He was still horribly afraid and knew that if Drogo was aware of Dr. Clearwater's instructions he would have thrown him out on his ear, but what was stirring inside him was something he hadn't felt in a very long time.  Hope.  Real hope, not the sham of pretense that Clearwater had suggested he come here for.  It was being offered him freely and without cynicism or an ulterior motive.  The moment, the smell of pipe smoke, the glitter of firelight and the shaft of sudden sunlight from the window, took on the feeling of import, as if the tableau were becoming part of an indelible memory.  He looked up at Drogo in growing wonder and the elder hobbit smiled at the sudden clarity in Dody's eyes.  "Yes," Dody whispered with real conviction.  "I think I can..."  And then he blushed and looked down.   

"I think you can too," agreed Drogo softly.  "Though I wasn't certain of it till just now.  I wish I wasn't going away, my boy.  I think I would like to see that courage come out in you.  It would be a heartwarming sight."  He held out his right hand in a gesture that indicated he wished to shake Dody's.  "But I'll be back in a month.  Perhaps when I return, I'll take you fishing.  I've always fancied fishing on the Brandywine.  It's a hobbit's best use for that bloody river!"  And then he laughed as he took Dody's hand and shook it.  "In a month then," he smiled.  "You mind Primula and help her take care of my boy and then we'll see if we can't become friends, all right?" 

Dody nodded numbly, still digesting his tumultuous response to what felt like a momentous meeting.  He had not expected this.  He had not expected anything of Drogo and this gentle offering of faith shook him. He didn't deserve it, they both understood that, perhaps Dody even more so than Drogo, but the fact that it was offered undermined Dody's carefully constructed detachment.  He looked up at the elder hobbit with awe. 

"Thank you," he answered with true humility.  "I'll do the best I can." And Dody was suddenly aware that he really meant it.   

~*~ 

That afternoon Drogo said goodbye to his little family and rode reluctantly towards the dock of the Buckleberry ferry.  He wasn't comfortable leaving his wife and son, but he knew that Menegilda, whose concern for them both was genuine, would be there to support his wife and would honor his and Primula's wishes concerning Frodo.  Daisy Burrows was also still checking in on Frodo daily and she had assured him that Doctor Clearwater would not be allowed to see the boy.  He felt less concerned about Dody's involvement too, now that he had met the lad.  There was certainly a shadow on him, but there was also evidence of the very strong Brandybuck resolve.  Under other circumstances, he would have been a stalwart lad.  Drogo sighed, thinking of all that he and Primula had gone through to have their one cherished son.  It was ironic that there were those who, blessed with several children, never realized what a treasure they had been given. 

The next morning, Dody knocked on the door of Primula's apartments promptly after first breakfast.  Primula showed him in and began describing what his duties would be.  Mostly washing and running errands, picking up meals from the great hall and helping Mistress Burrows with Frodo when she came to call.  Daisy would be teaching Dody as she had been teaching Primula what sorts of exercises and activities Frodo should be engaging in.  Dody took it all in silently with what he hoped was the proper level of attentiveness and then trudged down to the first tier, hiding is face behind the baskets of bright colored clothing. He tried not to think that he, a son of the Brandybucks, had been reduced to laundering a Baggins' underthings.   

The laundry rooms, where large vats of wash water were kept constantly heated, were adjacent to the kitchens and washrooms off of the main hall.  They were rather dark rooms full of steam and the crisp smell of clean, wet fabric.  They were the types of places one might have expected children to play hide and go seek or pretended they were in a badger's burrow but on that day it seemed the few children in the hall of age for such games were either outside in the sunshine... or sick abed.   

Once in the laundry, Dody began sorting through the garments, placing the light colored petticoats and drawers into a small vat of steaming water he'd drawn off of the bigger one that was permanently fixed over the fire.  The water was tinged bluish white from the soap the cooks made from rendered fat and wood ash and the acrid smell of it stung his nose.  The brighter garments he left in the basket for the next round and began stirring the basin with a well-worn wooden spoon. 

A few hobbit lasses; a young wife and Menegilda's maidservant, came in while Dody worked, but other than the smirk Menegilda's maid favored him with, they paid him no mind.  Dody studiously ignored them as well, not wanting to give either, but especially Menegilda's maid, anything more to gossip about.  That young lass knew better than to spread rumors about her employers, but he knew well she did so anyway, as long as they were ones that couldn't be traced back to her.    As much as his aunt and uncle had tried to cover up his beating, Dody had no doubt there had been talk about him.  His sudden removal from his father's home and the fact that few had seen him in weeks was enough for folk to have a pretty good idea about what had happened.  The first time he had been beaten there had been even less direct evidence and still word got out, though the servants and common folk knew enough not to talk about it openly.  Dody wondered if people pitied him or if they thought he had received his just desserts.  He glanced at Menegilda's maid from the corner of his eye.  She still wore her smirk.  Probably the latter, Dody thought.  He picked up a washboard and began rubbing the clothing across its ridged surface.  Just desserts indeed.  It was one thing to earn your keep by laboring in the fields, or by stocking the mercantile, but to be reduced to laundering like a serving lass! Though Dody knew he had no right to be arrogant, the labor grated upon him and he poured his growing resentment into his efforts.  At least the wash would benefit from his humiliation.   

Dody finished in silence and carried the basket of newly clean, wet garments through the main hall and out to the lines that had been strung beside the tobacco fields.  Bright white sheets, emerald coats, ruby dresses and muslin petticoats stirred in the fitful breeze, all clustered together by ownership along the lines that had been erected for the hall's residents.  Dody found an open section and set his burden down.  At least here he was alone and could finish the job without prying eyes or smirking glances.  

The season was nearing summer and the tobacco, Buckland's main money crop, was due it's final weeding.  The plants would be waist high on a hobbit now, and would soon be shading the ground completely with their own leaves.  Next the suckers would be removed and on some fields, nets would be raised onto elevated frames to shade the plants and encourage them to produce the fine, wide leaves needed for certain choice varieties of the weed.  Hobbits might have enjoyed their leisure but they were an industrious folk and everyone was expected to pull their share of the weight when there was work to be done.  Even the lads of influential branches of the family could be seen toiling in the late spring heat, shoulder to shoulder with those of their servants and neighbors.  

Consequently, it was with little surprise but considerable foreboding that Dody spied the forms of Marmadas, Darroc and Seredic Brandybuck trudging over the field, their hoes balanced over their shoulders.  Dody quickly bent to the basket but Marmadas' pointed finger and the faint sound of laughter told him he had already been spotted.  Dody hoped they were in a hurry and would content themselves with a private jest, but his pessimistic prediction that he could not be that lucky was quickly confirmed.  They were coming over. 

"Now, there's a justice if I ever saw one," said Marmadas with a contemptuous sneer.  The three boys stopped in front of the line Dody was pinning clothes to and leaned on their hoes.  Dody did not look up. 

"Go away, Marmadas," he growled.  "I've work to do." 

"Work more suited to your talents, I see," laughed Darroc.  "Couldn't trust you with a real job, eh?  Menegilda's got you laundering her bloomers instead?"  The three must have taken the comment to be much funnier than Dody found it because they all laughed again.  Dody picked a pair of child's breeches from his pile and pointedly shook them out in front of them. 

"I'm helping Primula..." he ground out through set teeth. He did not look up at any of them, knowing that if he saw their smirking faces he would not be able to keep his anger in check.  "Just giving her a hand until Drogo gets back."  He turned away, reaching up to pin the breeches to the line and hoping that would be the end of the confrontation. 

"That's big of you, Dody," offered Seredic, more gently, but also with a touch of mockery in his voice.  "Though I'd have thought out of character.  You've never struck me as the 'helpful' type."  And then he leaned conspiratorially to his companion, "More 'hindrance', I'd say," he added while jabbing Darroc in the ribs to share the jest.  Dody ignored them both.  After a long moment of stony silence during which Dody sullenly continued to hang the wash, Seredic, either growing bored or sensing that Dody was not going to rise to the bait, nudged his companions.  "Aw, come along then.  He's not going to be sociable and we've better uses for our time."  He picked up his tool and began walking off. 

Marmadas, however, was not content to leave without at least one more barb.  He reached out with his hoe, and despite Saradic's cry of protest, tipped the half empty basket over onto the grass.   

"Gee, sorry about that, Dody..." he smiled nastily.  "I suppose you'll have to wash that batch again." 

Dody still didn't look up.  He stared at the spilled laundry and fought as his temper flared and raged within him.  Just as Marmadas knew it would. Just as Marmadas intended it to.  The older boy knew exactly how to infuriate him and his wrath was building with the speed of a rushing flood.  He did want to bury his fist into Marmadas' laughing face for this petty act, but reason, in a last thrust of desperation before his temper took hold of him, warned him rightly that there could be no victory in that course. He would be beaten again, and it would undoubtedly be deemed his fault for dealing the first blow.  He mastered himself with a supreme effort and with anger stiffened limbs and tightly clenched fists, he stooped to retrieve the scattered clothing.  Marmadas was silent, waiting, hoping for Dody to move on him.  When he did not, the older boy scoffed.   

"You've had your fun, Marmadas," came Seredic's carefully light rejoinder.  "Now leave off.  We've got our work to get to as well." 

Marmadas did not move; knowing Dody well enough to expect the younger boy to do something, react somehow in retaliation.  Perhaps it was because Dody knew that was what Marmadas expected that he found anger cooling.  He would NOT fall prey to his own weakness, his own temper. He would not listen to that nasty little voice inside that beckoned and taunted him, egging him on with words that seemed oh so reasonable to his fury hazed mind.  Each and every time he had ever listened to its compelling song, he had paid a dear price.  He would not do so again. He kept his head bowed but his back unbent and finished putting the clothes back into the basket.  Some of them would need to be rewashed, or at least Dody could justify a studied retreat on those grounds.  He turned to leave and Marmadas sneered after him.  

"Your papa should have beaten you harder, Dody," he gibed.  "You've still got an attitude left in you." 

Both Seredic and Darroc gasped at Marmadas's audacity and Dody stopped in his tracks, his face growing hot again with renewed rage. The injustice, the cruelty and the hatred that fueled the words burned into him and he longed to fling them back at his tormentors.  The evidence of what he had endured was still written on his face in fading bruises and cuts and he knew if he just turned to face them even Marmadas would fall silent.  None of them had ever experienced the kind of violation Dody had suffered and he ached to burn them with its raw, bitter reality.  But even as these feelings came to him, the desire to reveal his pain waned and he realized he didn't want their pity any more than he wanted to fall prey to Marmadas' teasing.  He didn't want anything from them anymore.  Perhaps he had once sought their attention, their company or even their scorn, but it didn't seem important now.  He just wanted them to go away and leave him in peace.  His rage diminished to a defensive melancholy but the tenseness left his body. He hitched the basket onto his hip.

"Leave me alone, Marmadas," he said with a weary sigh and continued walking. 

Something had changed.  Dody couldn't quite put his finger on why but he suddenly realized what the other boys thought of him didn't really matter.  Though he was still angry and defiant, there was a strange new strength in him.  It was like unto the power he found when he thought of his mother and remembered her love for him.  It gave him the power to walk away, to stand tall and alone, and feel there might have been something worthy within him after all.  But he had not been thinking of his mother at all.  He hadn't thought of her all morning and though the strength he now felt was akin to the sorrowful ache and pride that filled him when he remembered her, it was also different; more immediate and more pressing, with an air of uncertainty to it.  He was trying to behave, trying his utmost to act in a manner that he thought would please... who?  His mind wandered over the recent changes in his life and the new faces and altered positions the more familiar ones held.  It was not his aunt he wished to impress, nor her physician, nor obviously his old companions, Seredic, Marmadas and Darroc, his father or Marietta, nor even his aunt Primula or her son. 

With a start that almost tripped him up and dumped the basket of clothes again, Dody realized whose good opinion he wished to gain so desperately that it had given him the strength to master his own demon temper. 

It was Drogo Baggins. 

~*~

Fear - Chapter 16

Fell Voices

Primula took her son, all clean from his bath and yawning cavernously, into her arms and settled on the rocking chair by the fire.  Dody tidied the alcove where he'd helped the boy dress and came over to where she sat.  The fire was low, so he dutifully stoked it and added a few more logs from the pile.  Her tea still steeped on the washboard, so Dody fetched it.  She gestured towards the other chair where a pillow and throw were draped and Dody retrieved that as well.  Primula tried not to smile at his sudden industry.  Her nephew had been a rather sullen helper but he did what was asked without complaint.  From his manner, she would have thought him eager to leave, but now that the end of the day had come he seemed strangely reluctant to depart.

"Have you any plans for the evening?" she asked.  Dody almost imperceptibly winced.

"Aunt Menegilda has invited Doctor Clearwater to supper," he answered in a tone that told Primula that he was less than delighted with the prospect.  "I imagine she'll be expecting me there."  The boy shrugged and Primula grinned sympathetically. 

"Oh, it won't be that bad, will it?" she laughed.  "A good meal should make it worth enduring some boring conversation, don't you think?"  Her eyes sparkled as she said it and Dody couldn't help blushing in response to her. 

"I... I suppose not," he replied.  Primula looked down at Frodo.  His eyes were slivers of glittering indigo but he was no longer struggling to remain awake.  He was in that pleasant state of relaxed repose that indicated sleep was just about to overtake him.

"You did very well today," she whispered and then looked up at her nephew.  "Thank you."  The boy's blush deepened and he looked down to examine his toes.  "Be sure to tell your aunt and the doctor how well Frodo is doing.  I am sure they will be interested."

A strained look crossed the boy's face just then but he kept his voice even and carefully controlled.

"Yes, aunt," he said.  Then she nodded to him.

"I'll see you tomorrow after first breakfast then?"  He nodded back.

"I'll be here."  And then the boy, dismissed, gave her a stiff bow and left.

Primula sighed and looked down at her son.  Frodo was asleep already and his little mouth was pushed open in a pucker where it pressed against her arm.  She bent and kissed his head, drawing in a deep draught of his sweet, little boy smell. 

Alone at last with him, with no husband, helper or sister in law hanging about, Primula immersed herself in the precious study of her healing child.  He was getting better. There was no denying it.  The optimism that Drogo had stubbornly clung to throughout this ordeal had finally penetrated her fears and she felt awash with hopeful joy.  Her little boy was going to be all right.  Even Menegilda's worries could not deter her optimism.  She knew he would be fine.  Drogo said so - and Daisy, that wonderful, special friend, concurred.  Primula had not missed the reservations Daisy had had at first; the careful way she had tried not to get their hopes up, but lately she had been so enthusiastic about his progress that it was clear she expected a full recovery. 

She stared at his sleeping face, memorizing the gentle curve of his cheek, the little dimple in his chin, the strong, elegant jaw line, the graceful dip of his eyebrow and the upward sweep of his perfectly pointed ear.  He was undoubtedly the most exquisitely formed child that had ever been born and would be a handsomer lad than any other in the Shire.  And soon, his function would be as perfectly matched.  She no longer had any doubt.  She could see the signs of his recovery already, if she looked.  When he played at cards, or with the small toys Menegilda brought, his hands were as clever as they had ever been, and he was beginning to speak much more clearly.  Drogo had seen the signs all along, bless him.  She beamed down at her sleeping babe and sought the subtle marks the father had left on the child.  His eyes were Drogo's - she had always thought so.  Not their color, which he had got from his mother, but their shape - broad, wide and expressive, and nearly as big as Drogo's warm brown ones.  Those eyes were what first attracted Primula to her husband and she had been delighted to see them on her newborn son.  Her daughter had had them too. 

Primula shook her head and scattered the memories that crowded her brain.  It was the future she must look to, not the past and now that she was certain her child had one, her mind and heart were finally at peace.  She cuddled his warm body close and eased her feet up onto the footstool to get comfortable.  In the drowsy warmth of the fire, her imagination wandered.  She saw him in the years to come, a tall, comely lad with a lean body, quite unlike his father's.  He was richly dressed, in clothes of a quietly elegant hue that set off his almost otherworldly features.  He was quite singular; a lad whose face would haunt your memory, but whose features evaded description.  He drew the eye, or at least his adoring mother's eye, and Primula drank in the sight of him.  She sighed in her contentment as she slipped into dream. 

Her vision continued as before and she saw him with her cousin Bilbo, together at his home in Hobbiton.  The two stood side by side in identical poses of contemplation, looking at the progress of a young hobbit lad painting the door of Bag End.  The thought entered her dream that they were very much alike, and Primula saw herself laughingly telling Bilbo that he had better not take her precious son on any adventures.  Her dream self scolded them both but she was so merry in her tone that neither paid her any mind. 

Then she saw him, grown fair and strong, sitting by his own fire in an elegant house.  He had a pipe in his hand and a large book filled with strange characters that he obviously understood.  A knock sounded at the door and when he opened it, a pack of merry lads entered bearing baskets and gifts, their cheeks bit red from the winter wind.  He was happy, oh so very happy, and Primula's dream self sang with joy.

Then she saw a sight that pulled at her heart.  It was Frodo with hair streaked grey but a youthful face, kneeling by a river.  He had a scarf around his neck that blew in the wind, and he was throwing flowers onto the water.  They drifted upwards with the wind and settled far out into the middle of the current.  She saw his cheeks flash silver in the sun.  He was crying. 

The vision shifted and suddenly all was dark.  The moon was rising and she looked across a wide plain of grass broader than any she had seen in her life.  A horse the color of mist, white and grey, raced across that plain.  Its rider, dressed in similar colors, clung desperately to its back and suddenly Primula knew that he was racing to her son's aid.

Frodo was in deadly peril and the rider was frantic to reach him before all was lost.  His fear gripped her and she saw a flash of another vision; that of her son, in a treeless, rocky place, his face haggard and dirty, his clothes worn and tattered.  Darkness and danger were all about him, pressing in and listening to him as he laughed with bitter abandon.  She longed to shush him, to warn him that even the rocks in that place had ears, but he could not hear her, she could not save him from the death that approached from all sides.

The icy fear that filled her now was nothing like what she had felt when she had heard his injured cry by the river - this was a surer dread and a blacker danger than even that had been.  I chilled her with horror as it pinned her eyes open, forcing her to watch on.  She saw him again, being held up by a companion, both filthy and haggard, but there was a smile on his face as he looked at his friend.  It was a sad but clear smile and his companion's eyes were red as if he had been crying, but the tears were in Primula's eyes instead.

She balked at the vision and fought her way to wakefulness.  She looked down at her son and saw him looking at her.  His face was that of the child he was but the eyes that glittered there were the ones she had seen in her vision; depthless and ancient, worldly wise and piercing. They held the same sad acceptance that he had looked at his companion with and spoke of sorrow, pity, compassion and regret, but no fear. 

"Don't cry, mother," he said, his child's voice echoing oddly in her mind, and then the tone changed and it was the dulcet, cultured voice of an adult that spoke to her from his pink child's mouth.  He smiled, sadly, and said, "There is nothing you can do.  I am already doomed..."

Primula jerked completely awake in an instant and stared down in horror at her son.  He squeaked a little in protest at being disturbed, but was still fast asleep.  As she watched, he snuggled deeper into her lap and when he'd got comfortable again he gave a contented sigh.  She clamped a hand over her own mouth and felt the tears spilling over her cheeks.  It was a dream, nothing but a dream!  She clamped her other hand over her mouth as well, but her mind still screamed...

~*~

Frodo knew the young hobbit who had come to visit but he couldn't recall his name.  They had told him once, and then again the next day, but it was as if the memory was a slippery eel that slithered out of reach whenever Frodo tried to grasp it.  The boy was sullen, gruff and ungentle most of the time, but when his mother was watching or when Frodo himself protested a rough handling, he would relent and seem to recall that Frodo wasn't feeling well.  Frodo wasn't sure if he liked the boy but at least he was someone new and he didn't treat Frodo like he was afraid he would break, as his mother had begun to.  The new boy also let Frodo stand and try a few steps, and encouraged him to feed himself, which were other things his mother seemed reluctant to allow him.  He supposed, all in all, that he liked having the boy around, especially if the only other choice was no companion at all.

The nice lady with the gentle hands, whose name Frodo also had trouble remembering, still came to visit as well but she didn't bring the little girl any more.  Frodo was sad about that but with outings and the strange drills the nice lady had him doing, he had less time to dwell on it than before.  Finally getting out of the smial made up for many things that he wasn't able to do yet, and he relished the opportunity. 

With the boy along to carry him, his mother had taken him outside for a picnic and the feel of the warm sun on his face had been a great delight to Frodo.  He had also been taken to his auntie Menegilda's for tea and liked nothing better than to be allowed to play with her sons' toy soldiers.  Her boys were long past the age for such playthings, but the little tin figures delighted Frodo.  The likenesses of elves and big folk and little hobbit archers were skillfully crafted and had once been brightly painted, though years of even gentle play had worn much of the color off them. 

His broken arm was very nearly healed.  Uncle Rory had carved a splendid brace and it stabilized his arm so well Frodo almost felt he didn't need it anymore.  Of course, his mother and the nice lady insisted that he did and would not let him dress without it no matter what his arguments. Though that didn't stop him from trying them.

He was much less dizzy than before and on a good day could sit long periods without an assault of nausea.  Standing, however, was still very difficult, though he eagerly begged to be allowed to try it.  While on his feet, the whole world seemed to spin with a slow, ponderous rotation that also leaned perilously to the side.  It invariably made the blood pound in his ears and, if he stood for longer than a few minutes, his head would ache abominably.  Walking, when he'd dared to try it, had been an unqualified disaster.  Two or three steps had been all he could manage before the dizziness returned and pain split his skull so badly he collapsed, shaking and nauseous again.  It was quite frustrating for Frodo.  He wanted to get back to normal as quickly as he could for he was growing very weary of the inconvenience of being ill.

Occasionally a headache would strike without warning, but more often he got them when he pushed himself too hard.  He quickly learned how much he could get away with doing before the pain came on and he went right to that limit time and again, pushing it back until even he saw a marked improvement in his condition.  In fact, Frodo would have been otherwise pleased with his progress if it had not been for the way his mother now regarded him.  Whenever she looked at him a strange sort of fear would haunt her eyes.  It seemed the most intense when he tried to show her how well he was doing at one of his drills, or when he showed her some little thing that he had not been able to do just days before.  It puzzled Frodo.  He wanted her to look at him with love and pride, to delight in his small victories.  He wanted to show her that he was going to be all right, that he was getting better, as the nice lady who visited, Daisy?, had said he would, but the harder he tried, the more worried she became.  A gulf was growing between them and each day it grew wider.  Frodo did not know what to do and was becoming frantic.  She was pushing him away and he couldn't understand why.

Despite his general improvement, there was a new problem that had surfaced. It made itself known quite clearly one afternoon while he and his mother were visiting his aunt.  Out on the broad terrace, Frodo had begged the boy to carry him over to the edge near where the chimneystacks poked up from the level below so that he could see down to the river.  But when they got to the bench between two brick lined columns and the boy stood up on it to give Frodo a clear view of the lands below, the sight of the sheer drop to the next level had paralyzed him with fear.  Sick and numb, he clung to the boy for dear life.  The boy had protested and had tried to disentangle himself from Frodo's panicked hold but that only served to frighten Frodo beyond reason.  He started to scream, his head started to ache again and his mother, shaking with horror almost as badly as Frodo was, had to retrieve him. 

Something about the sight of the dizzying drop of space with nothing beneath him called up an unspeakable fear in Frodo.  It defied all reason and made him physically ill.  His frantic reaction puzzled and frightened his mother and made Menegilda cluck with disapproval.  Frodo felt awful about making them cross but he could not help it.  The yawning space of air terrified him.  Just looking at that open drop made him feel like he was already spinning down into it and he was not able to control his distress until his aunt had plied him with teacakes within the secure, well-supported tunnels of her smial.  She stroked his hair and gave him cool compresses for his head till the pain went away again.   The incident would have been all but forgotten except that Frodo began to have strange dreams of falling and a desperate fear of being higher off the ground than the circle of someone's carrying arms.

When the boy first came to visit, Primula took care of most of Frodo's needs, leaving the older lad to fetch and carry and run errands, but after a while, and at the urging of his aunt Menegilda, she began to take short trips away from the smial, leaving Frodo and the boy alone together.  The first few of these she would return quickly, frantic with worry, only to find the two playing quietly in the alcove by the window.  Once assured that her son would remain safe, her trips became a bit longer and more predictable - to the market, to tea with Menegilda, and off to visits with other friends she hadn't been able to see since Frodo's accident.  Frodo wished he could come along, but he also valued the time alone with the boy so that he could practice his drills and try to do things without Primula's worried glances.

The times alone also gave Frodo a chance to talk and get to know his guardian's real feelings towards him.  Without Frodo's mother around, the older boy acted differently.  He still did his job with distracted efficiency but he abandoned all pretence of liking Frodo.  He was distant and wary and seemed bored and put out having to watch him.  He also asked odd questions about Frodo's accident - like what did Frodo remember?  It was a silly question.   The only thing that Frodo could recall from that morning was the breakfast, but it seemed to comfort his guardian when he said so.

The older boy thought it was funny that Frodo couldn't remember his name from one day to the next, and had taken to calling himself something different every morning.  It might have been a mocking game, but Frodo was delighted to note that after a few days he was able to remember what the boy had told him the previous one.  Of course, the moment he remembered the name the boy had given, the other said that that was most certainly not his name and would make up a new one on the spot, but Frodo enjoyed the play nonetheless. 

His guardian also seemed to like watching Frodo's less than graceful attempts at managing for himself.  At first, Frodo was a bit upset that the elder boy would not help him get up off the floor or would not help him dress, but his pragmatic mind realized quickly that these were opportunities for him, not obstacles, and he tore into each eagerly.  A fall was a chance to get up unaided and buttons were a chance to make his fingers remember their old proficiency.  The older boy despised emptying the chamber pot and so quite quickly insisted that Frodo use the privy outside.  That opportunity provided a chance (and incentive) for Frodo to practice both his standing and his aim without worrying his mother and both improved significantly with the practice.  He was getting so much better that Daisy, yes, that was her name, had laughed out loud and clapped her hands.  Frodo only wished his mother could have shown such effusive joy over his accomplishments.

~*~

On a bright morning a week before Midyear's Day, Frodo was dressed for an outing by the river.  His mother was going to visit a friend who lived along the north road and the two of them were planning on a drive down the river path, a coarse but scenic lane that was often under water in the spring but which, during the height of summer, was a very pleasant drive.  Frodo and his companion were to ride in the back of the cart while Primula and her friend shared the job of driving and the fresh air of the jaunt on the wagon's seat.

Frodo sat beside his guardian, who was calling himself 'Jona' today, and dangled his feet off the bed.  His chest was pressed up against the single board that closed in the back of the cart and his arms draped loosely over it.  'Jona' was sitting in an identical pose until he noticed Frodo mimicking him, then he indignantly changed his position.

"I should like a swim," sighed Frodo, resting his chin on the board and gazing across the cool, brown waters of the Brandywine.  The rolling motion of the wagon made his head spin and he ached for the gentle swell of the river current and the touch of its waters on his body.  It would have felt wonderful in the midday heat.  He glanced sidelong at his companion and saw that the older boy had dropped his head over the board and was staring disinterestedly at the road passing beneath them.  Suddenly Frodo remembered.  "You're Dody," he grinned, pleased that he had recalled the name.  The other boy smirked. 

"You're delusional," he replied.

Frodo laughed.  "No, I know I am right.  I remember now."  He smiled, quite pleased with himself.  Both his memory and his speech were getting very good.  He looked back over at the river.  "Though I should still like a swim," he sighed, and then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  "Do you think mother would allow it?"

Dody looked back over his shoulder at the ladies chatting amicably on the seat.  They had heard nothing of the boys' hushed words over the rattle of the old cart.  "Doubt it," he answered in the same soft tone.  "You're barely able to stand and even that makes your mother nervous.  She'd be beside herself if you were trying to swim."

Frodo sighed and gazed back at the river.  "She never lets me do anything anymore...  I wish..." And then a thought came to him.  "I'll bet if I could walk, she'd see I was all right and she would stop fussing so!"

Dody snorted and resumed his study of the dusty road.  "And how do you presume to do that?" he asked sarcastically. 

"With your help!" Frodo answered.  "You're going to help me walk.  I can do it if I've your arm to support me.  And if I practice, I'll soon be able to do it without, you'll see!  It will be our secret and then, when I am ready, I will walk to her and she will be so surprised!  She will see there is nothing to be afraid of!  She won't be worried anymore and then everything will be wonderful again, you'll see!"

Dody shook his head, with resigned tolerance.  "If you wish," he answered.  "Just don't get your hopes up.  You've barely yet managed two steps together before falling over, and even that left you shaking and dizzy.  But if you want to make a fool of yourself in front of your mother, you can try."

"So you'll help me?"

"I've no other pressing engagements," Dody returned clicking his tongue.

Frodo grinned happily and gazed down the road they had traveled.  "She'll be pleased, I know it.  She has to be.  She's only to see how well I am doing and then she'll love me again."

Dody rolled his head to the side and looked at his charge oddly.  "Who says she doesn't love you?" he asked.

Frodo frowned and looked down.  "Um..." he mumbled, suddenly embarrassed and realizing he had not intended to speak so.  "Nobody's said," he muttered, his face growing red.  He looked at Dody and scrunched up his brow as he thought.  Then he looked at his mother's back as she sat companionably with her friend.  He needed to speak to someone about his fears.  He had hoped to talk to his father but Drogo had been away what seemed like forever and Frodo's concerns were pressing.  "Aunt Mene says I am being foolish," Frodo began in a low whisper, choosing his words carefully and trying not to slur the longer ones as he sometimes still did.  "But I am remembering things better and better.  I remember my mother used to hold me."  His brow creased and his lower lip trembled before he mastered himself again.  "I remember she used to talk to me, and be close.  She used to hug me."  And at that a tear did escape Frodo's eye.  He quickly wiped it away before she turned to see.  "Auntie says I'm a big boy now, and that big boys aren't coddled like infants."  He frowned, hurt and regret drawing his lower lip down in a pitiful pout.  "But I don't think that's right."  He drew in a shaking but silent breath.  "I think I must have done something really bad. Really, really bad. But I don't know what it was.  No one will tell me anything and I can't remember.  They keep saying everything is fine, but it isn't."  His throat felt tight as he resisted a hitching sob.  His head, which had been feeling relatively painless, gave him a warning twinge.  He tried to ignore it.  "I must have done something; run off from Bethany, broken some priceless mathom, something... And whatever it was, it was so awful that my mother stopped loving me because of it."  He wiped at his eyes again.  "Please."  He looked up at Dody.  "Do you know what I did?  I'd say I was sorry. And I'd never do it again."  His huge blue eyes seemed to grow even larger in his pain-pinched, sorrow-filled face.  "I just want her to love me again.," he whispered.

Dody's puzzled frown deepened.  Something in Frodo's words seemed to pierce the older boy and he stared at his charge uncomfortably while an odd, teary silence thickened between them.  Frodo began to fidget.  His head was pounding again.  He laid it across his braced arm and closed his eyes in misery.  He shouldn't have said anything.  Dody would think him foolish and would tell his mother what he'd said.  She would think him odder still for entertaining the thought that she didn't love him and scoff that he still wanted to be held like a baby.  Perhaps he was wrong.  Perhaps it was asking for more than he was due, but he ached to feel her warm arms about him and to feel as if his presence were welcomed instead of something that made her shrink away in fear.  He squeezed his eyes tight to hold back the tears.  His mother was still only a few feet away and he didn't want her to look back and see him crying.  That would only serve to upset her and she had been so cheery this morning.  He sniffed, trying to relax his aching head and willing with all his remaining power that Dody would forget what he had said. 

"I... I don't think you did anything..." Dody whispered, even more softly than Frodo had spoken.  "And I don't think your mother doesn't love you.  Maybe it's me?  Maybe your mother isn't very demonstrative in front of others?  My...my mother was common born.  You know how much warmer and more physical they are.  But my father's your mother's brother and he's not much of a one for hugs and such.  Perhaps your mother is like him that way?"  Dody looked down at the road again and for the first time Frodo thought his guardian showed some emotion other than detached disinterest towards him.  It looked like something pained him dreadfully.  "The Brandybucks can be that way," he said, but it didn't sound entirely convinced by his own argument. 

"My mother was never like that before." Frodo returned earnestly, wincing.  This headache was going to be a bad one.  "If I didn't do anything wrong, why has she become so strange to me?"

Dody shrugged but a flash of irritation crossed his face.  "However should I know?  Perhaps she's been listening to Menegilda?" The older boy scoffed.  "Our dearest aunt is convinced you are going to be an invalid for the rest of your life.  She acts as if your injury was the greatest tragedy of the age and that you'll never recover from it.  From the way she carries on you'd think she were the one who had an addled son."

Frodo was silent for a while, thinking, but the thoughts he was having were as uncomfortable as his growing headache.  Did his mother think him addle-brained?  Did she think he'd never recover?  Was she ashamed of having a son who was damaged, broken, possibly beyond any hope of repair?  A chill of understanding froze his heart and he looked at his cousin sitting most uncomfortably beside him.  Did they all think of him that way?  Frodo blinked and let the unsettling notion pool in his mind. Perhaps they knew something about his condition that they were not telling him.

"Do you mean," Frodo began in a carefully controlled whisper. "That maybe my mother doesn't love me because I am hurt?  Because my head's been rattled and because I can't walk?"  Speaking the thought aloud gave it substance somehow and Frodo suddenly saw how all his mother's recent behaviors fell into an odd sort of logical place.  She was afraid of him.  She didn't like the fact that he still got headaches all the time and seeing his clumsy attempts at standing reminded her that he was still less than whole.  Dody shook his head in denial, but there was a strange look on his face - one of irritation and guilt.  Frodo thought his cousin looked like someone who had let more slip than he ought. 

"Don't be silly!" Dody denied, but he would not look Frodo in the eye.  The other boy's sullen, guilty posture spoke counter to his words and far more convincingly to Frodo.  Dody had given away some secret that he had been determined not to, Frodo could tell, and he was upset with himself for doing so.  Frodo sat in silence letting the revelation wash over his pain and becoming more and more certain his guess was right.  The warm summer day took on a chill that was not due to the weather.  He shivered.

"That's it, isn't it?"  Frodo said softly.  "She thinks I'll never get better and she's ashamed of me." 

Dody ground his teeth angrily.  "No!  That's not it.  Mothers aren't like that!  It's..."  He looked at Frodo then and the younger boy was shocked by the anguish mirrored in the older one's eyes.  There was guilt and frustration there but as Frodo watched, the look became angry, as if Dody were mad at himself for revealing his torment. The older boy growled and turned away, sullen and defensive, closed to his cousin once more.  Frodo sighed and closed his eyes, a weary sadness filling his heart.  That was it then.  She was ashamed of her damaged son and afraid of what others might think of him.  A great pity for his mother welled up inside of Frodo.  It was something he had done, in some way that had made her stop loving him.  It even made a sick sort of sense that she would feel that way.  He sniffed, his sorrow making his head pound even more intensely.  This was becoming a very bad one.

But even in the depths of his pain and melancholy, some part of him refused to succumb.  The core of his being resisted the wash of sadness and took the strength of that emotion for its own.   His resolve grew strong and overwhelmed the sorrow.  It filled him with quiet and purpose and steadied both his heart and his aching head.  This was something he could fix.  All it would require was hard work.  Harder work than he had ever been called on to do before, but it was possible.  He knew what he needed to do.

"It's all right, Dody," Frodo said, his voice clear and steady.  "It will be all right.  I know how to fix it.  I'll prove to mother that I am going to be well.  I will walk, you see, no matter how badly it pains me, and when I do, mother will see there is nothing to be afraid of.  I will be just like all the other children.  I will get well, you'll help me, and then everything will be all right."

Dody studied him silently for a long while and Frodo wondered what was passing behind his cousin's strangely unreadable expression.  Then, suddenly, Dody drew his feet up into a ball and curled against the buckboard, his back to Frodo, in a gesture of stark rejection.   Frodo blinked, confused and was unsure of how to respond to his cousin's behavior.  Did they all think him permanently damaged?  Didn't anyone harbor any hope for him?  He swallowed, feeling his resolve falter and the pain and nausea surge back.  No!  He had hope.  He knew he would get better, even if no one else did.  He swallowed the discomfort and stiffened his resolve.  He would show them.

Frodo sighed and laid down in the wagon to ease the pain.  They drove on in silence save for the chatter of the ladies in the front and the clip clop of the pony's hooves. The beloved sound of his mother's voice at last gave Frodo the comfort he sought.  When the cart finally stopped, he saw Dody rise, swiftly, and slide the board past so that they could both get out.  He would not look Frodo in the eye as he pulled blankets and baskets into his arms.  Frodo sat up and watched with sad longing as his mother and her friend carefully chose a picnic spot in the lush grass under a large, spreading elm and directed Dody to deposit their supplies there.  The older boy returned to the wagon and stood before Frodo, his arms outstretched, to carry him up to the picnic area.  Dody still managed to avoid looking him in eye.  Frodo let himself be lifted and looked again at the two ladies who were busily setting out the lunch.  Dody paused, also staring up at them, and after a moment, sighed too.

"I'll help you," he said stiffly.  His voice was gruff and defensive and his body trembled, as if he were being forced into something against his will.  His cousin seemed strangely angry, almost enraged, and Frodo was afraid the boy would drop him there in the dirt.  "You'll walk for your father when he comes back at the Mid-year's feast," he continued through a set frown.  "And then, that will be the end of it.  I'll wash my hands of you."  And so, ending all conversation on the subject, he carried the boy up to where his mother waited.

~*~

TBC

I am the Angst Maven... hear me roar!  OK, as if you weren't about to get all the angst you could possibly handle with ROTK, I have decided to dose you with a nicely filled helping in this chapter.  The story is winding down and the characters are well into play... The stage is set and things will be happening fast and furious from now on so fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy ride. Chapter  17

Angst Dr. Albarus Clearwater's assistant called in the afternoon while Dody was off picnicking with Primula and Frodo and made a request, formally as was the doctor's wont, that the boy dine with him that evening.  Menegilda accepted for her charge, pleased with the doctor's decorum and that he was taking such an active interest in both her nephews' welfare.  She had Dody's finest tunic laid out for the occasion, and seeing the clothes on the bed, Dody's heart rose in his throat.  He did not have to ask why they were there.  He had endured the doctor's questions before though after the revelations of the afternoon, he expected this meeting would be a far worse trial than the others had been.  Dody's mind was still in a turmoil of guilt and frustration.  It would take the hawk-eyed doctor only a moment to note the signs of it.  He had to calm, cover his self-recrimination with a veneer of tween-aged awkwardness - something he had in honest measure - and somehow keep the doctor from determining the reason for his shame.

He had been feeling good about himself.  Really good for a change.  Frodo was getting better, even he could see the child was recovering rapidly, and he was doing his part to help.  His thoughtless act might have triggered the fall, but he had paid in bruises, blood and servitude to rid himself of the guilt.  He had paid! 

But what if the injury was not the only harm his act had done?  Had he somehow helped put a rift between mother and son?  Preposterous!  Dody could not fathom the lovely Primula, or any mother, forsaking a child for any reason!  Fathers did that, but mothers could not.  It was not possible... And yet, Dody had seen the look in Frodo's eyes, the loss, the ache. He knew those emotions. They were his constant companions.  Had he facilitated inflicting the worst pain he could imagine on that innocent child?  Had he lost Frodo his mother's love?

Dody's fingers trembled as he belted his tunic and he angrily tugged at the tied knot.  This one mistake had cost him his home, his family (albeit those were not so great a loss) and his peace of mind.  When would it end?  Had he not paid enough already?  Dody had thought with Frodo recovered, he would be free of this demon, but the stain of its evil remained.  The child was not imagining things.  The better Frodo did, the more 'normally' he began to move and speak, the more subtly fearful Primula seemed to become.  It was as if she was afraid of him getting better, but what reasoning was behind her fear, Dody could not even begin to guess. 

At the door to the doctor's apartments on the second tier, Dody paused and channeled all his energies towards fighting back his nervousness and attaining a veneer of calm disinterest.  He noted the way his feet shuffled, and stopped them, the way his hands were wringing, and forcibly stilled them at his sides.  He must give nothing away - for in the meetings he had had with this shrewd hobbit, he had learned as much about Clearwater's methods as the old doctor had learned about Frodo's recovery.  He noted everything and seemed to store the knowledge away in the cool darkness of his mind.  Dody had to be vigilant for he was playing a dangerous game.

Clearwater's assistant, Bob, let Dody in and after a cheery wave and encouraging smile, donned his hat and left the boy alone with his master.  Clearwater himself sat already at table, a hearty meal set before him and an empty chair opposite.  Dody approached as carelessly as he could but even he noted the stiffness in his stride. 

"Sit, please," Clearwater said, his genteel voice sounding chillingly formal in the small room.  Dody did as he was bid, to await the start of the doctor's interrogation.  "You may help yourself, son.  I've no maidservant, being as I am but a humble tradesman and not of an influential family like yourself."

Dody perceived the mocking tone, but did not answer it.  He said instead," Thank you, sir, but I've no appetite this evening," in his most gracious and controlled voice. 

Clearwater blinked, but his tolerant smile never wavered.

"As you will," he said softly.  "You will not mind if I begin?  It seems a pity to let this fine fare go unattended."

Dody nodded and began a studious examination of his fingernails.  Clearwater ate fastidiously and made no comment throughout the meal but Dody was aware of his eyes watching him from beneath the dark brows.  He tried very hard not to fidget, or let errant ponderings on the afternoon trouble his thoughts, but by the time the doctor had eaten his fill and cleared his palate with a draught of pale wine, Dody's agitation had grown.  Exactly as Clearwater had intended it to, Dody bitterly mused.

"And so, how fares our little patient?" the doctor asked, pushing himself back and fishing inside his waistcoat for his pipe. 

Dody drew a breath but declined looking his interrogator in the eye.  "He is doing very well," he answered evenly.  "He has trouble keeping his balance still and complains of headaches though I suspect not as often as he gets them.  He has decided he will walk for his father when he returns."

Clearwater raised a brow.  "Indeed?  In your opinion, will he?"

Dody shrugged.

"Very interesting."  The doctor lit his pipe from the candle on the table and took a long pull on it.  His brows creased thoughtfully.  "Does he show any loss of mental capacity?  Any difficulty in retaining memories?"

Dody frowned and shifted in his chair.  "He's had some..." he admitted, "But he's getting better."

"I see."  The corner of Clearwater's mouth jerked into a momentary smirk.  Dody felt a flash of anger grip him.

"Disappointed?" he asked.  The word came from his mouth before he could stop it.

Clearwater's smile grew subtly broader and Dody bit back a curse.

"Now, there's what I like..." the doctor's oily voice purred.  "Honesty."  He stared at Dody with great satisfaction and the boy's dismay became a flame of fury behind his dark eyes.  "Shall I be honest back, my boy?  Hmm?  Yes, there should be no secrets between us, especially in light of the arrangements I have been making with your aunt."  He took another pull on his pipe and Dody felt the intense desire to wipe the hateful smirk off the elder hobbit's face.  "You ask if I am disappointed that dear Frodo is recovering?  Well, I naturally want to see the child recover as much as anyone, but I am a practical hobbit, and know my craft very well.  From the condition he was in when I saw him, I would have stated un-categorically that he would die - staked my reputation on it even."  He gazed off into the cloud of smoke that was rising above him.  "You could say his miraculous recovery is a bit of an embarrassment to me..."  He chuckled softly.  "You could say that, I suppose, but I am not so petty.  I merely wish to serve the Brandybuck family, and ensure they are not burdened with a child who would be a drain on their livelihoods and spirits.  If, as you indicate, he is recovering with little permanent damage, then I am delighted - astonished, but delighted."

Dody frowned and sank back in his chair.  Fair sounding words, but with a ring of strange falsehood about them that the boy could neither dismiss nor deny.  It was almost as if the liar had repeated them so often he half believed them himself.  And Dody had to grudgingly admit they presented an entirely reasonable position.  One that fit neatly with all the doctor's actions and presented him in a benign light.  But honesty and concern were not the emotions Dody saw in Clearwater's coldly calculating face.  He squirmed, unable to shake the feeling of being toyed with.  His arguments would have convinced Menegilda.  She would see nothing beyond her doctor's slavish devotion to her family.  She would not think there was any more to his interest than kindness, and likely no one else would either.  Dody swallowed the bile that was rising in his throat as the first stirrings of doubt entered his mind.  Though his heart was certain there was more to the doctor's interest than he let on, Dody's mind wondered what possible advantage could Clearwater gain by it.  What was he looking for?  What was the missing part of the puzzle?  Or was Dody's own suspicion and dislike of this hobbit inventing intrigues and duplicity where there were none?  Was it merely the doctor's simpering manner and Dody's dislike that suggested them?  The boy frowned in confusion.  He was so tired of feeling guilty, so tired of subterfuge and deceptions that he almost wanted to believe the doctor's fair seeming words. 

"I mentioned arrangements I have been discussing with your aunt," Clearwater continued, "Have you no interest in what they might be?  I should have thought a lad in your position would be most concerned about his future."

Dody blinked and looked up.  The doctor still smiled serenely, but there was no kindness in his eyes.  They glittered, as always, with cold triumph.  Dody shivered, suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable under that pitiless gaze.

"I have decided to take you on as my apprentice, Dody.  You have shown great compassion with that young boy and some not unrecognizable skill in dealing with people.  I can tell you are a sharp youngster; you miss little and I admire that.  You have kept our little secret while gaining the trust of the Bagginses and that was no small feat."  His smile grew broader.  "I merely wish to reward you for a job well done."

Dody blanched, his insides turning to ice as sheer terror gripped them.  He perceived the trap that had been laid for him, the one that by his cooperation and willingness he had walked right into.  Any illusion that he might have been able to hold his own in this game of cat and mouse evaporated.  He was the mouse, and he had done exactly as this vile cat had designed.

An elegant trap indeed; a generous offer to a poor unfortunate who had few other options.  The doctor could only be seen as being magnanimous, gracious, offering to take this practically orphaned boy to apprentice.  Dody's mouth grew dry and his heart pounded in his chest as a scream of denial raced across his mind.  Folk would congratulate him, tell him what a boon this was, how lucky for him.  Who would give credence to the white knuckled terror that filled him at the prospect of becoming subject to this nefarious hobbit?  There was not even the slightest inclination in him to accept but when he looked up at the doctor he knew his fate had already been sealed.  His aunt did not see what he did.  She was blinded by Clearwater's charms and had already agreed to the arrangement. 

"You... You're too kind, sir," the boy began, his strangled tone betraying his fear.  Sweat had begun to bead on his upper lip.  Dody licked at it, tasting the acrid bite of panic in the dewy liquid.  "It.... It is much too great an offer for the likes of me.  I... I am honored but surely there are other more capable lads who would jump at the chance of apprenticing with you?"  

"More capable?"  Clearwater laughed mockingly, victoriously.  "My boy, you have been part and party to the most miraculous recovery I have ever seen in my career!  Surely, you can see your own capability in that?"  He paused and his eyebrows drew down thoughtfully as he studied the panicking boy.  "Or is there another reason for your reluctance?" he mused.  It was not a question.  He laid down his pipe and stood, absently straightening his waistcoat.  "Have you had another offer more to your liking?" he asked softly.  "That very lucky midwife, perhaps?"  Clearwater's voice was icy cold as he watched Dody.  The boy avoided his eyes and darted frightened glances around the room as if looking for some salvation, some means of escape.  There was none.  "No, I see not..." Clearwater mused.  "I know your uncle has not entertained any other offers for you.  Your aunt would have told me..."  The comments were directed barbs of inquiry, lances bearing down on Dody to draw out his resistance and discover the root of it.  Dody, all semblance of control long since obliterated, turned away like a wounded animal, trying desperately to evade Clearwater's probing eyes.  He could not succumb to this outrage! He would not!  Somewhere in the core of his being, he found a germ of his tortured pride and clung to it.  He curled in upon it, defensively, wishing he could run but realizing there was no where to turn to.

"Or is it something else?" Clearwater breathed, his voice tinged with mocking wonder.  "Is it, perhaps, that you have found some great devotion to your patient, or his family?  Primula is a dear thing, and quite lovely."  He came from around the table and stood unrelentingly over Dody.  "But such a devotion is a dangerous thing.  She is another's wife and old enough to be your mother.  Or perhaps you see in her, a mother for yourself?"  Clearwater laughed.  "Foolish, my boy.  Damned foolish."  Dody did not look up, did not acknowledge the formidable hobbit by his side.  The image of Primula's dark hair and her slender white arms came to him, but she was not the fount from which his pride had drawn its last healing draught.  She was not the wellspring of his fragile hope.  Clearwater crouched beside him to look into his lowered, tormented eyes.  "I would not have thought you so impractical..."  He peered closer.  "But that's not it either," he whispered, his wonder no longer mocking but deadly serious.  His foul breath wreathed the boy and Dody turned miserably away.  Clearwater was cutting into him with like a surgeon, claiming him, exposing his weakness and revealing the source of his last vestige of conceit.  Suddenly, the doctor paused.

"Drogo?" 

Dody flinched.  Clearwater rocked back on his heels, seeing that his last comment had found its mark.

Drogo.  Dody himself had not been aware how much of his self worth he had wrapped up in Drogo Baggins' faith in him.  But there it was, laid bare and revealed to his own eyes.  He had built up that cursory offering till it had become the foundation of his reborn ego and now that he comprehended it, and knew that Clearwater saw it as well, he realized how ephemeral it was.  His vulnerability was exposed and he was naked before an enemy who would take this knowledge and delightfully destroy him with it.

"Ah... It is Drogo.  You have seen in him something to admire, something that draws you."  Clearwater laid a hand on Dody's shoulder and the boy twitched under the warm, moist touch.  "Dody," the doctor said in his most conciliatory voice.  "I am going to say this once, as a friend, not as your doctor and not as a potential master, but freely and with no ulterior motivations.  Please, remember, though Drogo is a fine hobbit, and an admirable businessman," there was a touch of sarcasm on the word that even Dody caught.  "He is not your father... And he never will be."

Clearwater's hand caressed Dody's shoulder and the boy felt ill.  More kind seeming words whose touch burned like poison.  He was trembling and sick, furious with himself for his weakness.  Drogo's offering of faith seemed empty now, a hollow memory that he had placed too much emphasis on.  He had been fooling himself with a fantasy he had not even realized he was creating, fooling himself that the other hobbit would care about him once his job was ended.  He had deceived himself about his own worth as well.  Drogo had said what was necessary, used Dody's desperate need for someone to show faith in him to ensure that the boy cared for his son properly.  When the job was done, he would shake Dody's hand and be merrily on his way.  Of course he would.  What else had Dody thought to expect? 

The doctor's hand moved up to Dody's neck, cloyingly under his hair, as if to draw the boy into a comforting, conciliatory embrace, but Dody shook him off with a violent shrug.

"Don't you touch me," he rasped and he glared up at Clearwater with venomous hatred.  Clearwater smiled again and stood, victory reflecting in his eyes. 

"You know that yourself, don't you, Dody?  He's not your father, and when he comes back, he will be grateful for what you have done, and then dismiss you.  You do know that is what will happen, don't you?  You are so desperately in need of guidance but you're looking for it from someone who will not be able to give it.  Drogo Baggins has his own trials to deal with in that wounded child.  He would never be able to give you the notice you need and you'd be disappointed not to get it, Dody, bitterly so.  I, on the other hand, can.  I am in need of an apprentice and you are in need of a master.  Why not at least consider my offer as an alternative to disillusionment?"

Dody clenched his teeth and dug his fingers into his palms in impotent rage.  The doctor's poisonous words danced around him, mocking him with their terrible truth.  He looked up as prey would view the hunter just before it closed its jaws to kill, and saw himself reflected in this quietly malevolent creature.  He saw in that instant how very little it would take for him to become just like the thing that stood before him, a hobbit of deceits and petty intrigues, a base and contemptible thing.  The revelation horrified him.     

He gasped on a raggedly indrawn breath and his body shook with the violence of his denial, but he said no word. He knew he was overmatched and his last card had been played.  The doctor knew it too.  Clearwater's knowing smile mocked him and Dody's mind whirled like a caged animal, screaming in frustration.  His cause had been lost before he had even set foot on this doorstep.  

"Consider it, boy.  You could take advantage of the situation or you could resent it, but my hope is that you will see reason."  The doctor didn't have to add 'Because you are mine regardless,' but Dody understood.  Dody understood very well.

~*~

"Wake up, poppet.  It's supper."

Frodo sighed and snuggled further into his pillow. 

"Now, now..." his mother's voice cooed.  "You need to eat, keep your strength up.  You hardly ate anything at luncheon and missed tea.  Come eat something."

Frodo sighed again, but this time opened his eyes.  Although his headache was almost gone, his mother stood by his bedside armed with a cup of willow bark tea and a sweet smile on her face.  He smiled back and tentatively uncurled himself from the nest he'd made.  Yes, his head was much better than it was.  The sleep had done its work.

"Yes, mother," he said and sat up on his cot.  Primula had a light supper laid on the table in the parlor and a cheery fire in the hearth.  She brought his hand up to the teacup and encouraged him to take it.  It was bitter, as always, but she had laced it with honey and blackberry cordial and it was almost palatable.  He drank it down without complaint, knowing that the mixture would help dispel the last of his head's lingering dullness. 

"Here's your waistcoat," Primula said, taking the empty cup back.  "It's just the two of us this evening, dear, and I was thinking of taking the air on the terrace afterwards.  Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes, mother!" Frodo struggled into his waistcoat and before Primula could assist him, had buttoned it himself.  She blinked but said no word.  "I should like that very much," he declared, now fully awake and brightening with anticipation.

"Good," she nodded, her smile following a moment later.  "But if you wish to go out this evening, you will have to eat something first.  Why, you are still as thin as a rail!"

His eager display crumpled to worried apology as he looked up at her.  "I'm sorry, mother.  It's just that I don't often feel up to eating."

"That's because you've been pushing yourself too hard," she gently admonished.  "You get yourself worked into a state and your head starts to hurt again.  You must give yourself time, Frodo.  Healing will come if you are patient for it."  She took his arm and guided him from the bed to the basin so that he could wash up.  

"May I use the privy outside, Mother?" he asked hopefully.  "Dody lets me."  Primula looked at him with amused tolerance.

"Dody doesn't like to clean the chamber pot," she countered.  "He 'lets' you from a desire to save himself some effort, not to indulge you, my dearest.  I've no such reservations.  Take care of your business here."  Her tone brooked no argument and Frodo sighed as he made ready for supper. 

With a clean face and hands, he let his mother carry him to the table.  There were many dishes laid out though each portion was but a tiny sampling of Brandy Hall's fare.  Frodo was working to regain his previously healthy appetite, but when his head ached and his stomach churned in answer, it was very hard to become enthusiastic about food. 

"There we are," Primula laughed, sliding his chair up to the table.  "A supper fit for a princeling.  Cook told me I was not to bring any of these dishes back full so you must help me or risk her wrath!"

"I'll try, mother," Frodo said, smiling faintly.  "But perhaps I should just sit for a bit till my tummy feels better."

Primula hesitated a moment then pulled her chair so that she could sit nearer him.  "All right," she said softly. "The tea will help, too, if we give it a chance to work.  We'll just talk for a bit then, shall we?  Till your appetite improves?"  Frodo smiled and nodded, very pleased to have his mother to himself and so close.  "Are you excited about seeing your father tomorrow?" she asked.  “It will be Mid-years day too and there will be such a party!  All kinds of food and drink, boat races on the Brandywine, all manner of games and songs!  And when the sun sets, we will build a great bonfire and gather 'round it for wine and more singing, riddles and tales.  It will be a grand time, and we shall have your father with us to share it.”

"Oh my yes!" Frodo agreed enthusiastically.  "The best part of all will be having Father home at last.  It seems he's been gone forever!  I've missed him dreadfully."

Primula nodded back, her excitement making her blue eyes sparkle again.  "Me too," she said winking.

"And I can't wait to show him how well I am doing!" 

The sparkle dimmed and Frodo suddenly wondered if he'd said something wrong.

"He will be pleased, won't he mother?" he asked, worried.

"Yes, of course he will," she assured him quickly.  "Your father will be overjoyed to see how much progress you've made."

"Aren't you pleased too?"

Primula stiffened slightly and looked away from her son.  Frodo's face fell and again he wished he knew what to say or do to drive away his mother's sadness. 

"I am," she admitted at last.  "I do want you to be healthy, Frodo."  She sighed as if struggling to form her thoughts into words he would understand.  "You mustn't think I don't want to see you well, darling, because I do...  It's just... Well, you gave your mother a terrible fright.  I'm not sure I am over it yet."  She looked at him again, her gaze searching and serious.  "You were terribly hurt, dearest, terribly.  And I love you so much that the thought of you leaving us tore me apart.  I... could not bear it if..."  Her hand slowly reached up and stroked his face, but she looked at him as if she were afraid he would break her heart.  "I suppose," she continued.  "In seeing your recovery, I see you whole again; that bright little boy that I could not protect.  I see you at the mercy of the world once more, vulnerable, and it terrifies me anew."  Frodo leaned into her hand, drinking in her touch.  "Just as you need to give yourself time to heal, you need to give me time to get over this fright.  I need to know that you really will be all right, to convince myself that there is not some great and vile menace reaching out to take you away from me."

"Oh, mother..." Frodo whispered.  "I will be all right, I know I will.  And you and father won't let anything get me.  You're the best mother in the world and Father is the best da!  You'll always be there to protect me.  I'll get well and be better than ever, you'll see.  You won't ever have to worry about me again!"

Primula's bright eyes shone with tears and she pulled her son into her lap. There she stroked his short curls and kissed the top of his head.  "I'll always worry, poppet.  That's a mother's job.  But right now the worry is overwhelming me.  There are so many things in this wide world you know nothing about.  There are things I can't protect you from and I've had that realization brought painfully home to me.  It will take time for me to get things back into perspective again.  I need to have you and your father close and whole for a while so that I can push back my worries and let you be a boy again.  You must learn patience, though I know you were never a patient boy."  She smiled, remembering, and kissed his curls again.  "Just don't push yourself so hard, give me some time to know in my heart what you already know in yours."

They sat together for a long while as Primula stroked her child and Frodo's heart swelled in the comfort of his mother's arms.  He didn't completely understand her fear but at that moment he didn't care.  He had what he treasured above any other prize; his mother's touch, and in that embrace nothing bad could ever happen to him.

"It's the hardest thing you'll ever have to do..." she whispered, almost too softly for Frodo to hear.

"What is?" he whispered back in the same hushed tone.

"Let go..." she answered.  "Even if you know you must, and the one you love more than life has his or her own path to follow, it is the worst pain you can imagine."

"Worse than my headaches?" Frodo asked, aghast.

"Far worse," she answered, her face shadowed with so much sorrow that it pained Frodo to see it. "It's an ache of the heart and there is no medicine for it.  You know you must go on, live for the sake of those who love you, but the hurt stays with you forever.  Time only teaches you how to function through it, but nothing eases the heartache."   

Frodo did not speak for he did not know what to say.  He pressed himself as close to her as he could, willing her to feel him and to know that he was there, solid and real.  The fleeting comfort he had felt in her arms was slipping away like sand through his fingers.  She had always been his security, his strength, the foundation of his world but the realization that she could be so shaken by something he had done terrified him.  It turned his whole world upside down and left him rudderless and adrift.  He needed her strong again, desperately.  He needed to have things the way they were, the way they had always been.  He needed the world to be put to rights again. 

Father returning would be a start, but he also had to get well, and despite what his mother instructed, he knew he had to do so quickly.  He could not bear her sorrow.  He could not bear this feeling of strangeness; this sense of anchorless drifting that had become his life.  He needed to walk, to run and play, to hide the pain of his headaches and at least appear normal again so that everything could go back to the way it was.  He needed the comfortable familiarity of the world he had once known more than he had ever needed anything before in his life. 

Frodo turned his face into his mother's neck and rested his cheek against her bare skin, drinking in what security he could from that touch.  He breathed in her sweet smell and let it flow over him like a tide of warmth.  He would see her happy again somehow.  No matter what it took.  Primula closed his small hand in hers and gently caressed the soft skin.  Frodo sighed, treasuring her attentions and becoming relaxed as the medicine began to have some affect.  He might be able to eat something this evening after all.
 
"Am I different, mother?" he asked softly.  "I mean than I was before."

A tremor coursed through his mother's body and she stiffened. "How so?" she asked, not quite masking her alarm.  Sensing it, Frodo's heart clenched again.  Could he say nothing to comfort her?

"Oh, it's nothing, mother, really," he quickly assured her.  "I just feel... different somehow.  Like I am special now.  Lucky, maybe?  I feel like something has noticed me that would never have seen me before.  Like I've attracted something's attention."

The comment, intended to comfort his mother, seemed to have the exact opposite effect.  Primula was shaking, almost imperceptibly, though pressed close to her, Frodo could feel it.  He sat up and looked earnestly into her eyes.

"I think something is looking out for me, mother.  Protecting me.  I don't think you have to worry because I really am going to be all right.  It's like I have been chosen for some great purpose and so, you see, I can't leave you!  I have something important to do yet!"  His words rushed out in a flood that he hoped was reassuring, but the dark fear that was growing in her eyes made him wish fervently that he had not said a word.  Primula crushed his small body to her and Frodo gasped with the strength of her terrified embrace.  He hugged her back fiercely, miserable that he had caused her pain again. 

"Could you eat now?" she asked, finally breaking the tense silence with a tight, squeaking voice.  Frodo almost wept.  The gulf of fear was opening between them again.  He had only wanted to comfort her.  To share with her that which gave him hope and assured him that he would be well and whole someday.  But by her reaction it seemed he had said the worst thing he possibly could.  Better he had said nothing at all.

"Yes, mother," was all he answered.

TBC

Fear - Chapter 18

Courage Without Guarantees

The Mid-Year's Day at Brandy Hall was always a special affair. It was the day the Brandybuck ladies took over the kitchens and the staff were given the holiday for their leisure. Of course, hobbits, by nature, are an industrious lot and though the common folk were given the day, they tended to use it to show the love they held for the family they served. After being provided a sumptuous breakfast by Menegilda and the other ladies, they decorated the hall, collected wood for the bonfire and then gathered flowers for the long tables that had been arranged in the field in front of Brandy Hall. Afterwards the first of the boat races would begin, and Rorimac Brandybuck himself would call them, cheering for old Gablock, who had been ferryman for as long as anyone could remember, as he met and, if former years' results were anything to judge by, defeated every strong hobbit lad who dared compete against him. Amaranth Brandybuck would oversee the fishing contest, judging the size and weight of the river catfish and carp that were prized from the Brandywine's muddy waters and instructing the still regretfully small cluster of hobbit children on the fine art of applying hook to worm. Though the common folk were more fruitful than their Buckland masters, the Fell Winter of 1311 had touched them as well. Second breakfast would be served on the terrace in front of the Hall's doors and folk would sample the generous fare, taking their turn at table in an ever revolving cycle of eating, drinking and merrymaking until everyone was sated, or at least could survive until luncheon. It was a joyous, giving occasion and was looked forward to by all of Buckland.

That morning Primula was giddy with excitement and most eager to be off by the time Dody turned up for the day.  She had not been able to help with the planning of the feasts and the last several years had missed Buckland's Mid-Year's day entirely while she resided with Drogo in his family home in Hobbiton.  Hobbiton had its own Mid-Year's traditions and while she enjoyed their celebration, especially with Drogo by her side and her infant son in her arms, she missed the time honored customs of Buckland; the sights and smells, the places of her girlhood.  They harkened back to days when she was secure and confident and thought nothing bad could ever happen in the world.  She knew today would be a day of familiar joys and the comfort of life deep in the bosom of her kin.  She needed the diversion and was eager to begin it.

She drew Dody in and made a show of thanking him for his generous assistance in her time of need.  This would be the last day he would be needed and if she saw that he was grim and sullen about seeing an end to his duties, she gave no sign of it.  She kissed him on the cheek and then bent to embrace her son.  Frodo smiled ear to ear to see his mother so happy and wriggled with delight when she pinched his nose and ruffled his short hair.  She promised that his father would be with them by elevenses and Frodo would be allowed to greet him.  Dody gave a short nod to Primula's instruction to bring the boy to the main terrace for the meal and gazed after her as she bid them farewell and whirled down the hall.

When the boys were alone, Frodo looked up at his cousin with curious regard.  He'd noticed the older boy's mood; it reminded him of the way Cook's kitchen maid, Adeline, acted when Miss Daisy told her she could not have any children.  Adeline had been quiet and her eyes held a look that Frodo had not understood, but it made him uneasy.  Dody had that look now.   Though his cousin was always moody and unpredictable, Frodo had never been afraid of him before.  This morning, however, there seemed to be something dangerous about him and Frodo hesitated to speak.

"Is everything alright?" he asked timidly.  "Are you upset about something, Dody?  That you won't be my helper anymore?"

Dody barely glanced at him. "Yes," he answered curtly.  "I suppose so."  The older boy's lips were a tight line and his dark eyes were sunken with an intense sorrow that was edged with desperation.  He was in no mood to be here, dealing with this injured but happy child whose future, despite the setback the fall had given him, looked far brighter than Dody's own.  Frodo sat on the edge of his bed and watched him, his large, bright eyes and shorn head reminding Dody of some strange sort of hatchling chick.  Dody felt an intense hatred for the boy suddenly flare within him.  Frodo would get better, would have his family back and close, would have the care and love of the entire hall.  Meanwhile, Dody would be trapped, prey to a toxic villain whose influence would slowly consume him.  Even thinking about Clearwater's proposal brought on a suffocating panic.  It was as if he could sense the doctor was a great danger to him but could not define precisely what it was he feared.  All he knew for certain was that he did not want to be tied to Clearwater, and that if he was forced to be, his life would proceed down a road he did not want to travel.  One from which there would be no turning back.  Fear and frustration filled him and battered his mind till, in desperation, he focused on the one thing he could reach that was more helpless than himself; Frodo. 

He felt a sharp impulse to strike the child; to beat the bright trust from his innocent eyes and to pummel his small body until Frodo was as in as much pain as Dody was.  He clenched his teeth to master himself and turned away.  Marrietta's words came to him with mocking clarity; 'Do you want to be like him?'  Dody's eyes burned but he did not shed his tears of anger.  No.  He did not want to be like his father but it seemed it was too late.  He already was.  'Two peas in a pod', his mother had often said, and she had been damnably right.  Perhaps he now understood why Dodinas had beaten him.  Perhaps he always had, but had kept that knowledge at arm's length.  With his last chance at salvation exposed as a fool's hope and his impotent fury taking hold of his heart, he could no longer escape the truth.  He was Dodinas' son.

"Don't be mad, Dody," Frodo replied with tentative brightness.  "I'll tell Aunt Menegilda how much you've helped me and she's sure to reward you!  I bet you'll get a whole dish of my mother's mushrooms and bacon to yourself out of this.  Wouldn't that be wonderful?"  He continued to stare at Dody's sullen, hunched form looking for some sign of response.  When none seemed forthcoming, Frodo leaned back over his bed and from the space between the mattress and the wall pulled a short wooden cane.  "I couldn't have asked for a better friend than you've been, Dody," he continued, hoping he could say something the boy would find pleasing.  "Folk always told me you were mean and nasty, but you've been very kind.  You played with me when nobody else would come to visit and I don't think I'd have been able to walk at all without your help!"  Frodo smiled hopefully, encouragingly, and slipped off the bed.  "Father will be so pleased when he sees me walking today and I'll make sure he knows you helped me do it.  He'll see Menegilda rewards you properly.  Don't worry!  My father can do anything."

The child stood, a bit unsteadily, but leaning on his cane instead of the bed.  Dody clenched his fists but said nothing as jealous rage washed over him.  Insufferable child!  Dody wondered if Frodo had any inkling of the peril he was in, any clue at all how much he wanted to throttle the life from him at that moment?  And as for Menegilda, she had already seen to his 'reward'.  What could Drogo do about it now, even had he been so inclined?  Dody seethed in outraged fury.  He had done all that was asked of him, trusted those who purported to be looking out for his future and yet this was what came of being kind, of cooperating and of relying on the good will of his family.

Frodo winced and frowned but stayed on his feet, clutching at the cane as a wave of pain crossed his small face.  Dody, stubbornly, refused to be moved.  He could not feel pity - would not - and yet Frodo's unintentional display momentarily unbalanced his rage.  He turned away, seething in frustration, and strode to the table by the fire, purposefully putting space between them.  Dody might have been his father's son, but he was not a fool.  He still wanted to hit something but had enough reason left to realize it could not be Frodo.  No justification in the world would absolve him of that kind of crime.  A quick glance up gave him a curiously satisfying image; that of Frodo frowning, his eyes unfocused as he tried to master the beginnings of a headache.  Good.  Dody plopped down in the furthest chair and glared into the flames.  He could not harm Frodo, but seeing the child in the grip of one of his headaches, did give the older boy some sense of satisfaction.  If the pain were starting already, he would be in no condition to walk to greet his father later.  Frodo would fail in his endeavor and Dody would get even more retribution from the child's humiliation.  It was small reparation, but Dody would have few triumphs from this point forth.

"Why don't you practice a bit?" he asked with cloaked disdain.  "Just to see how things are going today?  You might not even need that cane to walk those few steps.  Wouldn't you like to meet your father without it?"

Frodo looked up and met Dody's hooded glare steadily.  The shadow of pain mingled with the light of determination in the child's eyes.  For a moment, Dody paused, drawn into those bright orbs.  Frodo looked obsessed, almost fanatical, but with a desperate calm that the other boy recognized.  It mirrored his own desperate state.  Dody was unprepared for the stab of empathy that gripped him and it cooled a measure of his coveted anger.  Frodo squared his little shoulders and gripped the cane fiercely. 

"I am going to walk more than a few steps, Dody," he said calmly, his voice sounding stronger and more resolute than Dody had ever heard it.  "And I am going to walk from the hall to the tables without this cane, or your arm to support me.  I am going to show Father and Mother how well I have recovered.  Father will be so proud, and Mother..." Frodo's eyes glowed with an almost mad focus that seemed incongruous in someone so young.  "She will see I am getting better and will know that there is no longer any reason to worry.  She will see."

Dody frowned but was pinned by the zealous blue of Frodo's eyes and could not look away.  He knew from his own tenure caring for the child that what Frodo had just proposed was beyond him.  His best efforts at walking had, at most, brought him the length of the smial before the effort split his head with an agonizing headache.  Dody had helped him often enough to know what the result of Frodo's intended expedition would be - and so must Frodo have - yet there was something in Frodo's bearing that the older boy could not discount.

Dody's jealous resentment ebbed further and his curiosity grew, though with it came a stirring of concern.  "That's too far, Frodo," he said honestly.  "You're not up for it."  He stood, fumbled in his pockets as if looking for something and then met Frodo's eyes again.  He was still irritable and desperately wanted to hold onto his anger, but with this kind of real dilemma to face, he could not maintain it.  His tenure of nursing had apparently given him some sense of accountability for the child that he had not expected to feel.  "You're already feeling it now, aren't you?" he asked.  The younger boy grimaced.

"Maybe you could make me some tea?  The stuff Mother makes me drink.  It's bitter but she puts honey in it."

"Willow bark.  Yes, Frodo, I know how to make it."  Dody, took the kettle, sloshed it to see there was sufficient water and swung the pothook over the low fire.  He leaned on the mantle, staring into the flames and heard Frodo shuffling over to the table.  "You're going to need a lot more than tea to keep a really bad one at bay," he said quietly.

"I know," Frodo answered him with a very small voice.  He sounded every bit the 8-year-old child he was in that moment; sad, scared and anxious.  Dody glanced over his shoulder, thoughtful but resistant.  His temper cooling, his common sense was reasserting itself.  Dody could resent Frodo's better fortune but it wasn't going to change anything.  He turned back to the fire, surprised at his own thoughts.  Perhaps he did pity the child, despite all, or perhaps Lacy Broadbent's blood was at last pumping in his heart.  Whatever was holding him in check, Dody knew it had his own interests at heart, for no right-minded hobbit would lash out at a helpless child, and no right-minded hobbit would ever forgive someone who had done so.

Frodo slouched in the chair and rested his small chin on top of his crossed arms at the edge of the table.  The fanaticism had left his eyes leaving nothing but a worried boy behind.  Dody got a cup and placed it in front of him and Frodo toyed with it absently, sucking it to his mouth and chin and then dropping it into his hands.  

"I'll make it a double..." murmured Dody, as he pulled out the medicinal mixture.

~*~

Primula's eyes sparkled with delight when it was reported that Drogo's cart had been seen on the ferry road.  She took a platter of steaming hot food to the tables and then ran up the road, her bright skirts flying in her eagerness and her cheeks flushed.  She was a vision of loveliness that could have stolen the heart of any lad but she had eyes only for her beloved.

The pony cart came into sight near the mile marker.  The fat chestnut trotted smartly up the dusty road and the passenger grinned when he spotted her and waved his arms with enthusiasm.  Primula stopped, laughing, in the middle of the road and signaled the driver to halt.  Drogo bounded out then and scooped up his dear wife in a crushing embrace.  He whirled her around happily and she, in her turn, covered him in kisses and buried her face against his neck, breathing in his fine, strong scent and making him quiver with remembered desire.

"Easy there, lass, I've not been gone that long!" Drogo laughed, kissing her back.

"It's been too long for me!" she countered, gasping with delight as he twirled her around again.  "Even a day is too long for me!"  Her hands cradled his cheeks and she gave him a welcoming kiss that had the cart man blushing and turning to look the other way.  When they parted at last, Drogo touched her cheek and stroked her hair, his eyes sparkling as brightly as stars.

"Then I will endeavor to stay by your side from this day forth," he whispered, hugging her closer.  "Although journeying does not seem half so hard with such a welcome awaiting my return.  Come.  We'll journey back to the hall together.  I am eager to see Frodo as well.  Your letters were a sweet comfort but I need to hold you both in my arms as soon as m

They sat together in the back of the cart as the driver continued, though at a slower pace to keep from bouncing his fares off the buckboard.  Drogo and Primula drew close, heads together in tender conference as they wound their way towards the Hall.  Neither noticed they had arrived until the driver stopped and a throng of happy hobbits called out greeting to the pair from the feasting tables.  Primula beamed with pride and delight to hear her darling husband hailed so merrily.  Drogo had already been a popular hobbit among the common folk of Brandy Hall, for he was kind and fair, and among most of Primula's relations because he made her so happy, but the little family's recent misfortunes had touched the hearts of Buckland and made them welcome Drogo Baggins as one of their own.  Even Menegilda seemed to have forgotten her earlier disagreements and smiled to see him return.  Folk came up from the tables and down from the hall to greet the two of them, slapping Drogo on the back and inquiring of Primula news of their son's progress.

The driver paid and Drogo's belongings unloaded, the pair made for the tables for a quick bite.  Drogo's stomach had growled noisily the minute the smells of the food hit his nose and Primula insisted he would not go another step without sustenance.  Drogo acquiesced only when she assured him that Frodo would be brought shortly and they would sit down to the meal together.

"So your nephew has proved helpful?" Drogo asked between mouthfuls of tender chicken.  "No problems that weren't worth mentioning in your letters?  I had hoped you would have been more newsy in them about Frodo but thought perhaps it was because there was not much progress to tell of..."

Primula flushed, not missing Drogo's hint.  "Oh, no, love.  Frodo has improved a great deal," she answered softly.  Her tone held just a hint of reserve, as if she weren't comfortable with some part of the disclosure.  "You won't believe how far he has come just since you went away.  And as for Dody, he's a sullen boy, but as I told you, I had no reason to complain."  She laughed.  "If anything, he is far too tolerant of Frodo, letting him do more than I deem him ready for, but I didn't wish to worry you.  Daisy says it's been very good for Frodo to be pushed a bit, but you know how I worry.  I think I was afraid to say much for fear my silly concerns would come through in my letters and unduly alarm you.  If I said less than you wanted to hear, I am sorry for that.  Daisy says he's doing splendidly and I thought it best you listen to her advice in person rather than read the scribblings of an overprotective mother hen."  Primula clicked her tongue in mock disapproval.  "That's what she calls me, you know.  'Mother hen.’  She thinks I need some sense knocked into me - impudent thing, isn't she?"  Primula rubbed his arm.  "But now that you are back, you can keep me in line instead."

Drogo smiled and took a deep draught of ale.  He sighed gratefully as it hit all the right spots on the way down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, an action that earned him a tolerant scowl from Primula and a hearty laugh from the common folk seated around them at table

"I've set up my accounts so that Dora can oversee things while I am away.  She was most eager to see us back in Hobbiton but I was firm in that Frodo could not be moved such a distance until he was completely recovered.  I also think it is better for him to grow up here, if we can manage it, among a few children his own age but I don't think that sat well with her, or with Bilbo.  Dora's of the opinion that a Baggins should be raised with Bagginses but I think it's mostly a matter of her not wanting to travel to visit us - being as she is getting up in years.  I believe Bilbo simply wants us nearby so he'd have someone of sense to converse with."  Drogo chuckled and winked at his wife.  "But he's still spry and willing enough to travel if he really wants intelligent conversation.  Yes, I think we'll settle here in Buckland for the next few years, if Rory's willing."

"You know he is," grinned Primula, delighted with the news.  "He adores both you and Frodo."

"And your Menegilda?"

Primula made a face at him.  "She'll put up with even you to keep our son close.  She's taken quite a proprietary shine to him.  You might have to step in and assert your parental rights again."  Primula winked back, eliciting another hearty laugh from Drogo.

"As good as done... Now, speaking of Frodo..."

At that moment a hush fell over the crowd and Primula followed her husband's narrowing eyes to the front entrance of the hall.

A distance of barely 20 yards separated the tables from the hall.  The broad terrace was essentially deserted with most of the local folk either down by the river or sitting at table.  There, just outside the great wooden doors stood Dody and Frodo.  The child looked tiny and frail to Primula's eyes but Dody stood behind him looking ready to catch him if he fell.  Primula drew in a sharp breath. 

"Oh, Frodo..." Drogo sighed, beaming with pride.  "Look at him, dearest!  You didn't tell me he was doing so splendidly!"

Primula could say nothing.  Her throat felt tight and a panic gripped her as she watched her son take a hesitant step forward.  Dody followed closely and it was then Primula noted the cane the older boy held.  She stood but Drogo put a hand on her arm.

"And he's walking?!  Oh, Prim!  Why didn't you tell me?"

The joy in her husband's voice held her in place though she longed to rush to her child.  It was too far, much too far for Frodo to walk.  Primula wrung her hands and watched Drogo climbing slowly to his feet.  In his fixed eyes was such profound happiness that she found herself hesitating to disturb the moment.  The hush deepened as Frodo took another step, and another, walking with careful purpose towards his father.  Drogo left the table and stood in the open watching his son's progress with tears in his eyes.  Primula followed, tears forming in her eyes as well.  She ached to stop Frodo, to gather him up and hold him back from this unnecessary display, but she also thought she could understand why he was doing it - and the reasons both touched and grieved her heart.  Touched, because she knew he wanted to make his father happy, show him how far he had come, and grieved, because she knew he thought her recent distance was something he could mend or fix somehow.  Perhaps he thought by giving her this effort, walking to them in the open in front of many eyes, proving to her and all of Buckland that he could do it, it would bring her back to him somehow.  She stumbled forward a step as insight and pity weakened her limbs and blinded her with tears.  Had her selfish fear driven her son to do this thing?  She took another step and stopped, weeping openly.

Frodo had also stopped and was getting his balance again.  Dody hovered just to his side but not touching him.  He was letting Frodo do what he had to do.  Primula's whole body quivered with desperate longing but she did not move.  If this display was to win her heart back, it was working.  In those fraught moments Primula saw clearly what she had not been able to face before; that by shielding her heart from the pain of another loss, she had shut out her living, breathing child.  She had chosen to protect herself rather than help him and it shamed her to the very core.  How could she have not seen it?  How could she have left him, wounded and alone, and closed her heart to his desperate need?  Frodo stumbled forward again and a stabbing, empathetic pain raced through Primula, but something still kept her from rushing to stop him.  This purposeful walk was his gift to his father as well as an entreaty to her and she deserved every bit of the suffering watching it caused her.  Drogo came up to her side and put a trembling hand on her shoulder.  In his eyes was only pride and she turned away lest he see the guilt in hers.  She would not ruin Frodo's gift, she would not shame him before his father and she would endure the pain that watching him struggle caused her.  She would let her child fight this battle, would let him become whole and face the frightening world again, though it was agony for her to do so.  She could not protect him forever.  All she could do was be there for him and be ready in an instant to catch him if he fell.

~*~

Dody was close behind Frodo.  The tea he had drunk, four cups all told, had soothed his headache but though Frodo had declared the pain gone, Dody knew it was not.  After four steps the wince had returned and after five, an almost imperceptible trembling started in Frodo's hands.  Dody stepped forward, offering his aid, but the child ignored it and pressed on.  Drogo and Primula stood clear of the great tables with nothing between them and their son but an expanse of terrace and a little stretch of green lawn.  It was a paltry distance to cross, but Dody was becoming increasingly aware how much of an effort it would be for his charge.

A pause and then another step.  The crowd grew silent, watching the pair of them.  Dody felt the tickling of a hundred pairs of eyes on the back of his neck.  What would they do if Frodo fell?  He inched forward, ready to catch him, but Frodo saw and stubbornly drew his elbow into his body.  He would have nothing of it.  He was determined to walk the whole distance by himself.

Another step and Frodo wavered in his balance.  He stopped and closed his eyes for a moment.  The trembling was noticeable to Dody, but he doubted any other could see it.  Frodo was hurting badly and yet he pressed on.  Another step, and another.  Dody hovered, becoming increasingly troubled by Frodo’s deteriorating condition.

Sweat beaded on his creased brow and his lips lost all color.  His face, which had been flushed before, took on a faintly green hue, and his eyes narrowed to mere slits of dogged blue.  But he pressed on.  Dody shifted the cane uncomfortably.  He shamefully remembered that he had wanted to see the child in pain this day.  He had wanted to see this fortunate boy brought low.  Well, here was that sight, gifted him in a way that few could find him at fault for.  Yet he felt no satisfaction seeing it.  Another, more powerful emotion was brewing in him as Frodo walked on.

Grudgingly and haltingly, admiration took root in Dody's wounded heart.  Frodo was not brought low, but persevered when he could have given up and none would have thought him lesser for it.  This was no performance for the approval of the hall, no vain display, but a sacrifice given in great pain.  Frodo could not do this thing, and yet he would, and all for the consolation of those he loved.  Realization gripped Dody and a deep respect filled him.  This was courage in its rawest, most pure form.  To those who looked on it appeared as nothing but a simple act; a stroll across the terrace, they could have done it easily.  Though hushed and proud, none of those who watched, except perhaps Frodo's mother, had the slightest inkling of what this act was costing Frodo.  And yet, he walked on, caring only for the regard of the two who watched him from across the terrace.  Another step, more notable trembling, a pause and a spreading of his legs to regain his balance.

Dody followed, hovering and yet somehow unable to impede the determined boy.  Never in his life had he been privileged to see such courage displayed.  The sight of it confounded him.  Some of the hobbits at the table began to cheer, encouraging the boy on, but Dody could tell Frodo didn't hear them anymore.  They couldn't really see what they were witnessing anyway.  None of them would ever know the kind of heart that drove this small boy onwards, and yet in that moment, Dody perceived it.  His was a courage that was greater than Dody had ever imagined anyone could possess and it was hidden in a child less than half his age.  What calling could ever show the world the magnitude of this boy's will?  None, Dody realized with a start.  There was no job, no challenge in the entire Shire that would ever reveal it.  Only he knew.  Only he would ever know, in all likelihood.  In that moment, Dody felt incredibly blessed.  Unaware, Frodo had given him a gift unlike any Dody had ever been entrusted with - a show of courage unequalled and utterly selfless.

There was no trace of jealous rage left in Dody now.  He looked up to see how far they had to go and was surprised to find the world blurred by tears.  Drogo met his eyes and leapt forward and Primula stumbled behind him, her hand to her mouth.  He was to them in an instant, drawing his son into a crushing embrace and looking down with dismay when the little child slumped, spent, into his arms.

"Sssseeee?" Frodo murmured, a smile on his white lips.  "I did it...  Told you…"

Drogo, stricken and confused, looked up wildly at Dody.  The blame and outrage in his eyes smote the older boy like a physical blow and at first he drew back, but then he looked at Frodo’s ashen face and seemed to draw his own courage from it.  He stood firm, for the first time in his life feeling more concern for another than for himself.

"What have you done?" spat Drogo, in a furious whisper.  "Have you no eyes?!  Even I can see this was too much for him!"  Drogo drew the boy's limp body into his arms and shook with terrible rage.  Primula clung to his side but said nothing as her husband towered menacingly over her nephew. "Why on earth would you let him do this?"

Dody’s will faltered, and he again took a half step back.  He was buffeted to the core by the might of Drogo's righteous anger, but he held fast and met the older hobbit's eyes openly.  He half expected to be struck down, but somehow no longer felt any desire to dodge the blow.  Frodo's trembling arm reached up to wrap around his father's neck and the sight filled Dody with tearful pride.  He had not expected to feel this way.  He had never known such a love, but seeing father and son reunited in a tender embrace touched him more deeply than anything had before.  This was why Frodo had walked and that was all that mattered.  Perhaps Dody would never know such a love, but he had just been gifted with an awesome, uplifting display of it.  He turned to face Drogo's anger buoyed and fearless.

"Because he loves you," he said softly and turned and walked away from the celebration, the smial and the tiny reunited family.

~*~

TBC

Chapter 19

Drogo only relinquished his hold on his listless son long enough to allow Daisy to examine him.  When she proclaimed him out of danger but in need of rest and quiet, he gathered the boy up and strode to the family's apartments.  Primula followed closely behind, strangely subdued and quiet but with none of the tightlipped anger Drogo exhibited.  Neither spoke a word during the intent march and Drogo wondered that his wife had no word for him, either of explanation or agreement. 

At last they reached their small rooms and Drogo laid Frodo on his pallet.  The child had not opened his eyes once and a grimace of pain seemed etched upon his brow, but for all that, he did not seem upset.  In fact, he almost seemed contented, as if, done with a great labor, he could now settle into a well-earned sleep.  When Drogo stood back, Primula slid around him and, still silent, drew the child into her arms.  Frodo did not protest being roused, but reached up gladly and clung to his mother.  Together they sat on the little bed and held each other as if no one else in the world existed.  Drogo stared, becoming more and more puzzled.  Silent tears streamed down Primula's face while Frodo burrowed against her neck, seeming to want to get as close to her as possible.  Drogo shuffled back to the table and sat, burning with questions and aching to speak, but unwilling to disturb the moment between mother and child.  What in the world had happened during his absence?

"Shhhh, poppet, I'll not let you go ever again," came Primula's soft whisper.  Her voice was choked and sorrowful, but she smiled amid her tears.  She clutched her boy and at last looked to her husband.  In her clear blue eyes he saw grief and guilt, but underlying them both, almost too well hidden for him to perceive it, was fear. 

"I'd say we have some talking to do," he said, his anger abating but still raw from the sight of his son in pain.  "But I believe you already know that." 

She nodded and kissed Frodo's cheek.  Then she whispered in his ear and laid him gently back down.  The boy sighed and curled up to sleep as Primula laid the coverlet over him.

"That was quite a display out there," said Drogo, carefully.  "I am still angry with your nephew for his complicity but I am beginning to suspect there is more to this than Dody's lack of sense.  Primula?"

She hesitated only a moment as she closed the drapes on Frodo's alcove, then came to the table and sat, straight-backed and resigned, as if to face a punishment. 

"Don't be too angry with him," she began.  "It wasn't Dody's fault Frodo came to see you that way.  I believe it was mine."  She played with her fingers in the casually elegant way Drogo had learned she did when something troubled her.  He suppressed the urge to place his own hand over them. 

"I know it was wrong, beloved, and I haven't any excuse one as stouthearted as you can respect.  I saw it myself but thought my child too young or too ill yet to notice."  She looked down at those hands.  "But I saw I was wrong today."

Drogo frowned again, but his voice was kinder.

"What happened, Primula?"

She looked up and then away towards the draped alcove.  For a long while she sat, lost in thought, as if trying to figure out what she would say to him.

"I think it was because I was afraid, beloved," she answered at last. "I know he will recover, I have his strong will and your courage to thank for that, but... "  She shifted uncomfortably.  "There are so many things that could happen to him, Drogo, so many dangers even here in the heart of a place I once thought so safe and protected.  This happened so fast.  So fast."  She closed her eyes and shivered.  "I remember that morning.  It dawned bright and promising, and yet before elevenses the world was turned upside down."  She looked down at her hands again. "I was so afraid he wouldn't get better, that he would never get to become strong and kind and wise like his father, but now that I know he's going to be well, I am even more frightened."  She paused and a sad, wistful look crossed her face.  "I should be glad he is whole and will live a normal life.  I should be overjoyed, in fact, but with every step he takes and every obstacle he overcomes, I see him going out into the world where I can't protect him." 

A sob caught in her throat and eyes grew bright with tears again.  "This happened so fast, Drogo," she repeated.  "With no warning or chance to prevent it.  Right here in the safety of my homeland!  What if he should wander into the old Forest, or catch some sort of fever?  What if something else should happen to him?  I can't lose another child, Drogo.  I can't do it.  And yet I can't keep him safe forever either."  She gazed up at him with a look of remorse that nearly broke his heart.  "This accident showed me how tightly I have bound my heart to him, how much I stand to lose should anything befall him.  So, I drew back.  I kept him at arm's length till I could reconcile my fears, till I could see myself apart from him.  I thought I had to.  Fear had consumed me till I no longer had the strength to be the mother he deserved."  She sagged in the chair; a hopelessness and shame emanating from her that Drogo could almost feel through the still air.  "I was selfish and foolish, thinking he would not see it.  I kept my love from him just when he needed it the most and I am bitterly ashamed of myself but even more, I am afraid of what you must think of me."

The clock ticking on the mantle and the whisper and hiss of the low fire filled the suddenly heavy silence.  Finally, Drogo let out a long breath and drew a hand through his curls. 

"Well, that's a bit of a thing, isn't it now?"  He sat back and studied his wife's downcast eyes and her slumped and weary shoulders.  "There now, lass, don't take on so.  I've got to shoulder some of this blame, if we're being so honest about it." He smiled grimly.  "I was so bent on getting over this, moving past things, that I couldn't see you still needed some time."  He raised his hand at her beginning protest.  "I shouldn't have gone.  A few letters to Bilbo and Dora could have sufficed for the time being.  If anyone was being selfish, it was me.  You both needed me here more than I needed to be in Hobbiton."   

Primula gave him a wry smile.  "Well, you wouldn't have stood for my foolishness, but I'm not certain that you could have stopped me.  I've got enough Took in my veins to be hardheaded to a fault."

"Yes," Drogo agreed with a laugh.  "There is that."  And then his smile faded and he looked soberly at his son's draped alcove.  "You touched on something you are right enough about, though, my dear," he continued softly.  "Nothing is for certain in this world.  Bad things do happen, with no warning and for no reason that anyone can determine.  You are right when you say Frodo will face danger in his life, and you are right when you say we won't always be around to protect him."  Primula shifted again as if to evade a truth she could still not face, but Drogo continued.  "No one lives forever, my love.  There will come a time when our son will have to face life on his own and danger is a part of life even if we've got no goblins to fight or treasures to steal.  We can do our best to protect him while he's a child, but even that vigilance can't keep him from every danger, as we've seen.  And one day he'll be a hobbit grown and will need to look after himself.  It would be a better service to give him the tools he'll need to meet those challenges on his own.  He's got the heart, and then some, and that will serve him well, and your fire, that spark that I've always loved in you."

"And your will," Primula added, smiling.  "And your brightness and goodness."

Drogo answered her smile and this time did lay his hand on hers.

"He has many of the things he'll need already," he continued, his smile turning somber.  "But there's one thing he's got to have that we can only give him during these precious years - and that's love.  It's the one thing you can never give too much of, and it's the one thing you'll never regret giving.  I know how much it still hurts you, Primula, to remember what you loved and lost, but even the love you gave her wasn't wasted."  He smiled with tenderness and profound compassion and thumbed away her newly fallen tears.  "It comes back to you in the end, you know," he whispered.  "That pain will never leave you, but love can temper it and ease the heart.  Holding back love won't protect you, should the worst happen, but knowing what you could have done with the time you were given and didn't, well, that could eat you up inside."

Primula looked up and gazed deeply into his eyes.  Her heart was open and bared.  It was as if he could see right into her bright but frightened soul.  She still feared, but Drogo could tell his words had touched and fortified her.  He saw the walls her fear had built up crumble and the sorrow she had hidden behind them spilled forth.  Nine years he had waited to see this.  He stood and took her into his arms.  At last, the long overdue tears came and she sobbed helplessly against him.  His heart broke for her suffering but he knew this was right.  At last she was letting loose her grief and crying for their little Primrose.

Drogo held her tight, his heart overflowing with love for her delicate, transcendent spirit.  She was his heart, his soul and his light.  He had ached to return to her throughout the long month away, had dreamed of her night after night, but no dream could draw from him the overwhelming emotion that her reality called.  He kissed her soft hair and murmured soothingly into her ear.  He had returned and would stay.  He would be hers forever and beyond.  He would love her till the stars of Aman burned out and the song of the world faded into memory.

At last her sobbing eased and she drew him into an embrace that nearly drove the breath from him.  He knew the meaning of it.  She was eased, and in his strength had found her own.  She would be all right now.  At last she lifted her head and, her eyes still closed, found his lips and kissed him.  He knew that gesture's meaning too.  She was his, wholly and completely, and would be unto her dying day.  Their love was stronger than her fear, and she would never allow it to overcome her again.

~*~

How long he walked, Dody did not know, but when he found himself by the muddy banks of the Brandywine, he stopped and dropped wearily at the base of an overhanging tree.

There was much for him to think about.

He felt oddly lightened, almost disoriented, but he viewed his surroundings with a new, sharper focus.  It was as if a light had been un-shuttered and he suddenly saw himself as if reflected in a clear glass.

And a child had revealed this to him.

It was strange that he did not feel jealous, or angry or defensive.  Those were all emotions he might have expected to feel in response to Drogo's anger, but for some reason his mind was clear and his heart curiously joyful.  For the first time in his life he felt a compassion for another being that was bereft of any need or desire of his own.  Even the long cherished love he had held for his mother was not as freeing as the feeling that now washed over him. 

He wasn't even sure what words could describe this feeling of elation, this utter, selfless joy that filled him.  He had seen courage and been drawn into it.  He had seen a light stronger than his would ever be and yet he did not feel humbled by it.  He had come to realize that a small boy was a better person than he could ever be and yet he did not feel envy.  Instead, he felt honored to have seen it, cherished to have been taken into that boy's trust and glad to know that the child would be happy again.

It almost felt like his own soul was opening up, expanding to accept something greater than he had ever known. 

He looked back on his short life with a suddenly clear and critical eye.  He had seen what kind of person he was becoming, and though he had never liked the dark path, the anger, the hatred, the jealousy, he had never thought himself capable of any other course.  But now he saw the evils he had already done, accepted them and forgave himself.  The darkness was not stronger than he was.  It was the easier road, but not the only one.  He did have the strength to turn away from it, and not only by relying on another's faith in him.  He had what it took within him.  He need only ask it of himself.

The wonder of that realization was the source of his joy and he felt like hugging the small boy who had finally showed it to him.  How dearly he now held that child!  Frodo would not even understand what an amazing thing he had done and the thought of those bright blue eyes looking perplexedly up at him made Dody suddenly laugh out loud.  Of course he wouldn't understand, he was but a child.  He had acted in the only way innocence and love demanded he act.  And Dody found that he loved Frodo as much for that innocence as for his strength.  No, this was a gift, unconsciously given, but one Dody knew he would be a fool to forsake.  Here was his chance to step off the dark path and stand on his own for the first time in his life.  It was no longer in his heart to do anything less.

The river flowed swiftly by, its brown waters curling with seductive leisure, but its mysterious depths no longer held any lure for him.  He was happy, truly happy, for the first time in years.  As the sun glinted hypnotically off the ripples, Dody thought of what his mother might think if she could see him now.  She would be beside herself with pride, beaming at him, her bright eyes shining like the glittering swirls.  He could almost hear her laughter in the bubble and slide of the waters and could almost feel her gentle touch on his shoulder.  It made him smile.  His mother would never be further away than a memory.  She was in his blood too, a part of him, and one he dearly treasured. 

She was in his blood too….  A sudden realization jolted Dody.  Lacy Broadbent had always walked the bright path, and yet while she lived, her gentleness had held his father's dark nature in check.  Her goodness truly was the stronger of the two and Dody was astonished he had never understood that before.  But there it was, laid out before his new awareness, the confirmation of his revelations in the pattern of his own life.  Dody felt tears he had not realized he had cried cooling on his cheek and sent a silent thanks to his mother's beloved spirit.  There was a proof he could hold to in the days to come.  He would be Lacy Broadbent's son and know that by his own choices he did honor to her memory.

His smile faded a bit as the thought on what those next choices would be.  His future was still a dark question, but he turned his now hopeful eyes upon it as well.  Clearwater was what he might have become and serving him would be a sore test of his newfound resolve, but he knew in his heart he would have the strength to meet that challenge too.  He would learn what he could from the doctor but resist the darkness as long as he could.  Perhaps this had been intended somehow, that he should work to contain this malice, this darkness that he knew well, and protect what goodness still existed in the world.  Goodness like that he had glimpsed in Frodo's selfless example was worth fighting to protect..

The sun was westering behind the far hills east of the Marish when Dody finally left the river's edge for home.  He had missed the Mid-Year's Day festivities but the loss had not been in vain.  He would be well.  He would do what duty and fate demanded of him, and he would never again listen to the voices that spoke lies in his ears.  A stronger voice, his own, was speaking to him now.

~*~

The tunnels of Brandy Hall's first tier were a far cry from the dry and airy quarters Drogo and Primula shared.  Spare and utilitarian, with drab brick walls and a slate floor worn smooth by ages of hobbit feet, they were serviceable enough, Drogo supposed, for those who spent their days in the fields or in the service of the great house, but scandalously poorer than what he would have expected a nephew of the Master to have had a right to.  Left, then right, then past two adjoining tunnels, Drogo walked, following Primula's directions.  The next left, at the end of the corridor led to Dody Brandybuck's current accommodations: the last smial on the right.  Drogo stopped before the shabby round door, its color long since faded with time and wear, and knocked.

Shuffling sounds inside told him the occupant was at home and he stepped back as the door opened.  Dody looked out, an expression of mild surprise on his face.  Drogo nodded in greeting.

"Dody," he said carefully.

The boy gave a short bow, though his eyes avoided Drogo's.  "Sir?"

"May I come in?" the older hobbit asked.  "I've some words to speak with you, if I may."

A look of worry crossed Dody's face, but he stepped back and motioned Drogo in. 

"I've not much to serve company," the boy apologized, "But I can make tea if you'd like."  His tone was soft, sad and uncomfortable.  Drogo shook his head. 

"I'm fine.  I've just come to talk with you.  Have you any place for us to sit?"

Dody looked around the room sheepishly, as if just realizing he did not have the furniture necessary to entertain even one visitor and hesitantly motioned his guest towards the room's only chair.  In the light of the small lamp, Drogo got the impression of a modest smial that was at once neatly kept and almost artfully disarrayed.  Clothes were tossed in piles and the few books were scattered in a way that suggested the occupant had left the clutter in defiance rather than habit.  He sat and Dody, after a moment's hesitation, settled on the small bed.

"Primula has spoken to me," Drogo explained.  "And I have come to understand that despite today's incident, you have been an adequate helper.  She says in some ways, you have possibly been better for Frodo than she was, and so I should consider this when examining your actions."

Dody had not yet met his eyes, but Drogo saw his thin shoulders relax.  He had not realized the youngster was so tense. 

"I am sorry for that, sir," he whispered.  "Frodo was in my care and I should have known that the effort he was proposing would be beyond him.  He was most eager to meet you that way, fanatical about it almost, but I was in charge and should have denied him.  You are absolutely within your rights to be angry with me.  I failed you and I am sorry."

"I…" Drogo stopped, not expecting such a mature admission from the younger hobbit.  The words were spoken plainly, not as an excuse but as a statement of fact, and without petulance, anger or defiance.  Drogo peered at him more closely.

Though Dody still avoided looking at him, he could see this was no longer the boy he had interviewed in his parlor.  He looked resigned, but accepting; tired, but no longer guarded like a hunted animal.  There was no trace of irony or sarcasm in his dark eyes and they held the same hint of fulfillment that Drogo had noticed in his son.  Even with Primula's explanation, Drogo felt Dody had acted irresponsibly and had been fully prepared to confront a defense of excuses and justifications at their meeting but this confession was so unexpected Drogo almost found himself wanting to apologize to Dody.

"Yes, well," he muttered, patting his pockets more out of habit than any real need of a smoke.  "That you've come to that realization yourself does you credit, Dody.  You can understand my anger on the field, I hope, but as long as you see the error of your ways, I'll hold nothing against you."

"Thank you, sir," was Dody's calm reply.  He looked down and Drogo wondered at the difference between the reputation this child had acquired and the reality.  The rumors he had heard did not seem to fit the person who sat before him.  .

"What are your plans now?" he found himself asking.  "Has your aunt made any further arrangements for you?"

A regretful smile crept up one side of Dody's face. 

"Yes," he answered, daring a touch of irony.  "It seems someone was impressed with my skills in caring for your son.  Aunt managed to arrange an apprenticeship with Doctor Albarus Clearwater for me.  I begin in the morning."

Drogo felt a chill grip his belly.  Clearwater!  Why on earth would Menegilda bind her blood kin to such a creature? 

"I… see," he replied, carefully.  "And how do you feel about this situation?"

Dody shrugged. 

"The doctor seems to think I have some skill," he answered, though Drogo could see Dody was more resigned than enthusiastic about the arrangement.

"Do you like the doctor?" Drogo pressed.

Another shrug.

Drogo fell silent, thinking.  Whatever previous notions he had had about the boy, Drogo was realizing very quickly they had been wrong.  Dody was no longer anything like the creature his reputation painted him to be.  The worth that Drogo had just seen the promise of at their first meeting had begun to blossom at last, emerging as if from deepest darkness.  He seemed on the verge of maturing into a polite and humble hobbit.  But to be tied to a creature like Clearwater!  The doctor's influence would destroy that worthiness, of that Drogo was inexplicably certain, and he felt a surge of protectiveness for his nephew.

"Mister Baggins?" Dody asked.  "Is Frodo all right?"

Dody was at last looking at him and the clear, dark eyes pierced Drogo.  Dody truly did resemble his son.  Others had remarked on it before, but he had never noticed.  The shade of resentful sullenness had always hidden any likeness from him.

"Daisy seems to think he suffered no harm from his ordeal, though she was not pleased to hear about the 4 cups of willow bark tea."

"I'm glad to hear it," Dody replied, blushing, though his smile was one of unguarded relief.  His genuine concern warmed Drogo and he had the clear impression that Dody's earlier tension was a result of his worry for Frodo and not from any concern he had for himself.  The older hobbit again felt frustrated that this boy was to be given to Clearwater.  It simply could not be borne. 

"You've done a lot of growing up this summer, haven't you?" he asked.  Dody fixed on him again, with the calculating awareness of his former habit.  He seemed to search the older hobbit's face, not desperately hoping for salvation, as he had done a month before, but perceptively, as one who saw an equal.  After a long silence, Dody nodded.

"I've not had much choice," he said with another shrug.

The longer Drogo studied the boy, the more he felt Menegilda's choice was utterly wrong.  An intense and strengthening desire to do something to prevent this catastrophe made it difficult for Drogo to keep his seat and he suddenly launched himself from the chair.  Dody looked up, startled, but got to his feet as was proper to see his guest away. 

"You start your apprenticeship tomorrow?" Drogo asked curtly.  Dody nodded, puzzled.  "If you don't mind, I think I should like to speak with your aunt before these arrangements are made final.  My cousin Bilbo has a wide range of friends from many levels of society.  He put me in contact with some information Menegilda might be interested in."

"Ah… all right," stumbled Dody.  "I am to meet the doctor at my Aunt's apartments in the morning to sign the apprenticeship contract.  You could speak with her then."

Drogo smiled and laid a hand on Dody's shoulder.  The boy looked confused but willing to let Drogo have his say, even if he didn't seem to think it would do much to alter the situation. 

"I'll see you then," Drogo assured him solemnly.  "And let's hope the news that I have is enough to change your aunt's mind."

~*~

He was warm and his head didn't hurt anymore.

Those were the first two sensations that Frodo became aware of upon waking.  The next was that he felt soft warm breaths being periodically spent into his hair and that there was an arm wrapped comfortingly about his waist.  He opened his eyes. 

There beside him, deeply asleep, was his mother.  They were in his parents' bed, rather than his, and the darkness suggested to him that it was deep night.  Behind him, he could hear the deep rumble of his father's sleeping breaths and could feel his lax hand resting protectively on his shoulder.  His mother was dressed in a night dress of soft cotton and had gathered him close to rest on her soft breast.  He could feel her warmth through the thin fabric.

He hadn't slept with his parents like this for many years, mostly at his own insistence because he felt he was much too old to be coddled so, but at that moment, he would not have wanted to be anywhere else.  He had them both back, as if nothing bad had ever happened.  Enfolded in their arms, he could almost pretend that it had all been nothing but a dream.  He wriggled closer to his mother until he could feel her warmth along the length of his body.  She stirred and gave him a sleepy squeeze.  Frodo smiled. 

Yes, he had them both back.  The comfort of that knowledge settled him and in the warm dark he felt sleep stealing over him again.  Yes, everything was back to normal, just the way he needed it to be.

TBC

The first thing Dody noticed upon entering his Aunt Menegilda's apartments was Dr. Albarus Clearwater.

He was resplendent in his emerald green waistcoat and soft chestnut colored jacket and had the look of a satisfied cat that had at last captured a very elusive mouse.  The second thing he noticed was that Drogo Baggins was not in attendance.  That observation filled him with more sinking disappointment than he had expected to feel.  Apparently, despite the warnings of logic and reason, Dody had not been able to resist building up his foolish hope Mr. Baggins would help him get out of this mess, somehow.  He sighed, resigned, and squared his shoulders.  It was unlikely Drogo could have done anything anyway.  Menegilda would not go back on her word once she had given it and she adored the doctor.  What could Drogo Baggins have to say on his behalf that could change that?  Dody stood respectfully before his elders as they picked at the remains of their second breakfast.  The resolve he had reached the day before still held him and Dody took comfort in it.  If he had to face his fate alone, he wanted do so courageously.

"Promptness is a virtue, my boy," grinned Clearwater.  "I hope you never lose it!"  He turned amicably towards Menegilda.  "Try as I might, I never manage to keep to a schedule past the first appointment of the day.  It's my patients, you see.  I am simply too interested in their lives, every little ache and pain, trial and tribulation, to bear just leaving them until I've had a chance for a good chat."

"And I thought it was just my brandy that kept you."  She winked at the doctor and Dody knew there was no way he was going to escape this trap.

Clearwater laughed and pushed himself back from the table.  "Well, my boy, are you ready to join my practice?  I've brought all the apprenticeship contracts with me, ready to be signed and witnessed.  I must say, I am pleased to have you.  I've just sent my last apprentice, Hildefons¹, off on his journeyman leg and I am sorely missing his assistance.  This fortuitous arrangement could not have come at a better time."

Dody resisted the urge to wipe his palms on his breeches.  "I... I am pleased to have been offered such a position, sir," he replied correctly.  "I hope my skills will be equal to your instruction."  He could not force the response into anything more enthusiastic than a humble whisper, but the doctor didn't seem to mind.

"Oh, I have no doubt they will be more than adequate, my boy.  I have a nose for these things.  I see a great deal of myself in you, you know.  You're bright and will be going places, mark my words!"

Whether it was the presence of his aunt or the near completion of his goal, Dody did not know, but Clearwater's manner was disturbingly sunny.  Even his eyes had a merry, almost jovial light rather than the calculating clarity Dody had marked in him.  He certainly was, as Dody's father used to put it, 'one who knew what side of the toast to butter'.  Dody shifted, the warm confidence of yesterday's epiphany taking on a touch of fatalistic melancholy.  This was where his future lay.  He needed to accept it and make of it what he could.  He thought about his mother and remembered young Frodo's selfless sacrifice and his will hardened.  Self-pity was not a luxury he could afford anymore.  It would only lead to bitterness and regret and he had trod those roads for far too long.

The sound of the door opening startled him and his heart leapt, stubbornly grasping at hope again.  But it was not Drogo.  It was his uncle Rorimac, the Master of Buckland, returning home to sign the apprenticeship papers.  Rory's feet were dusty from the fields and his rolled up sleeves were a stark contrast to both his wife and doctor's sartorial excellence.  He eyed Dody dubiously.  Rory was a practical sort, not cruel or unfair, but he had never been overflowing with affection for him.  Or for the doctor, for that matter.  He likely saw this apprenticeship as a way to be rid of both with very little inconvenience to himself.  Dody could not expect salvation from his quarter either.

"Where's this contract?" Rory asked.  "I've got leaf in the lower field that's ready to be picked.  I can't just hang about."

"We are waiting for Fineas, dear," reminded Menegilda.  "We've got to have the paperwork legal and proper."  Dody watched Rory narrow his eyes suspiciously at his wife.  Fineas Brockhouse was a solicitor from the Bridgefields.  Dody had met him before, but had not seen him since the Bagginses moved back to Brandy Hall.  Rory generally preferred to use Drogo for legal work and from the looks that passed between him and Menegilda, he had not been aware of the engagement of Mr. Brockhouse.  Menegilda raised an eyebrow at her husband in return, unfazed.

A firm knock on the door sent the maidservant popping out from the corner to answer.  Again, Dody hoped and again he was disappointed.  It was the solicitor.

The knock Dody had been waiting for finally came as the papers were being filled out.  Menegilda had arranged for witnesses to arrive later in the morning to sign the document and she told Holly, the maidservant, to answer the door and ask them to return closer to elevenses.  The young lass barely had the door cracked when an out of breath voice called from behind it.

"Rory!" pleaded Drogo.  "I must speak to you!"

Dody, seated in a corner a ways back from the table, stood up; hope, curiosity and optimism vying for control of his emotions.  Clearwater also stood and came up behind him to place a proprietary hand on his shoulder.  Dody suppressed the urge to shrug it off, but couldn't prevent his muscles bunching defiantly beneath it.

Behind Drogo entered a hobbit Dody did not recognize.  He was richly dressed, though his clothes had a layer of travel dust on them, and he carried a stout, carved walking stick and a worn pack.  His resemblance to Drogo was remarkable and, though he looked and moved like a hobbit of middle years, his eyes held a dark wisdom that seemed much, much older.

Rory gestured the two gentlehobbits inside.  Menegilda curtsied, her eyes flickering curiously over her new guests.

"Why Mr. Bilbo!" she exclaimed.  "We haven't seen you in these parts for years!  You should have told us you were coming to visit - we'd have prepared a welcome for you."

Mr. Bilbo Baggins bowed.

"I am afraid my trip was planned rather poorly, my dear lady.  I'd intended to travel with Drogo to see for myself how his lad was coming on and to partake of Buckland's excellent Mid-year's day feast, but I was delayed.  I am dreadfully sorry to be dropping in like this but must confess to being even sorrier I've missed the festivities."

"You are always welcome, whatever the occasion," Menegilda automatically assured him.  "Or lack of one, I should say.  Unfortunately, you've arrived just at a somewhat inconvenient time.  If you'll allow me to conclude my business with the good doctor I'll be at your disposal."

"Actually, Menegilda, Rory," Drogo said in a meaningful tone.  "My cousin Bilbo has some business of his own with Doctor Clearwater."

At that, Clearwater's hand spread across Dody's shoulder.  It felt like a spider settling down to take a bite of him.

"Mr. Bilbo Baggins?" the doctor asked.  "Of Bag End, Hobbiton?  The one who went off adventuring all those years ago?"  His tone sounded slightly mocking, as if he were touching on a joke he had earlier shared with friends.

Bilbo and Drogo leveled their eyes at him and Clearwater stilled like a deer that had just scented the hunter.

"I see the tale of my exploits has not been forgotten by the humble folk of Buckland," said Bilbo with a slight nod.

Clearwater's hand tightened across Dody's shirt.

"We'd like a word with you, Doctor," Drogo said firmly. "It is a matter of utmost importance that cannot wait."  He seemed to want to say more, but a glance from Bilbo stopped him.

"I believe my office is the most conducive place to conduct my personal business," the doctor soothed, his voice showing no signs of wariness.  "If you would be so kind as to meet me there after elevenses, I will be able to give you my full attention."

"Most gracious of you, doctor," Bilbo replied.  "Though there is also a matter my cousin would like to discuss with Menegilda concerning the young lad you have your hands on."

Dody's heart leapt.  Drogo had something!  He glanced over his shoulder at Clearwater, but the doctor's eyes were fixed on the two Bagginses.

"Young Mr. Brandybuck is to be my apprentice, Mr. Baggins," Clearwater told him primly.  "Drogo himself can attest to the boy's skill with the healing arts."

Drogo's eyes never left Clearwater's.  "That may be premature, sir," he replied.  "I believe we might have a more amenable situation for him.  I spent the morning making inquiries and collecting my cousin from Buckleberry, who, I do believe, has some information about your character that Mr. and Mrs. Brandybuck will want to know before they decide to engage in an agreement with you."

The hand tightened on Dody's shoulder almost painfully.

"Information?"  Clearwater's tone became as cold as Drogo's stare.  "I highly doubt that the Master and Mistress of Buckland would be fool enough to hold me accountable for unsubstantiated gossip spread by the likes of you two."  Though he sounded confident, Dody could feel Clearwater's trembling.

"I have spread nothing," Bilbo smiled.  "I don't hold much with gossip and never repeat it, but a situation has come to my attention that I must act upon.  It concerns a dear lady of my acquaintance, and yours, by the name of Lily Bottoms."

Clearwater hesitated and drew Dody closer.

"I would very much prefer to keep my personal affairs private, sir," he said, for the first time in Dody's acquaintance, sounding unsure of himself.  "We have other business to attend to here and as this matter can hardly be of any concern to these good folk, I strongly suggest we address it later in my offices."

"Excuse me."  Dody pried himself out from under the doctor's intense grip.  He recognized the exit Drogo was presenting and knew he had to speak, and quickly.  "Uncle, I would be most interested in hearing what Messrs Baggins have to say.  What is this other situation?  If there is a question about Dr. Clearwater's character, shouldn't you at least hear the particulars?"

Rory blinked, slightly surprised.  "Hmmm…  The boy may be right.  Considering the circumstances, doctor, perhaps we should hear Bilbo out.  Dody is our responsibility and we have a right to know if there is a shadow on your character."

"'A shadow on his character'?"  Menegilda looked at them all with extreme disapproval.  "Honestly, Rory, you are quite ridiculous sometimes!"

"Nevertheless," Bilbo bowed.  "The boy has requested to hear the particulars.  The business I have to discuss is of a somewhat personal nature, but I think would illustrate the Doctor's character quite clearly.  However, I do respect his privacy and will not speak unless the doctor gives his leave.  Perhaps you good folk could impose upon him to let me, and thereby settle the boy's concerns?  I am sure he will be able to clarify the whole matter to everyone's satisfaction."

Clearwater did not look pleased and glared at Dody with veiled malice.

"It's always best to nip things like this in the bud, Albarus," Rory agreed.  "Let Mr. Bilbo have his say and then you may have yours.  That'd be near as fair as any judgment of twelve good gentlehobbits.  Will you let him?"

A subtle shift was occurring.  Menegilda's disapproving frown was slowly softening into an expression of uncomfortable curiosity.  If Clearwater refused to explain himself, it would do irreparable harm to the favor he had worked so diligently to keep.  Dody almost laughed.  Clearwater would not risk that.

"If it would ease your minds, Master, Mistress, I will most certainly explain, to the best of my ability."  He examined Bilbo with sad tolerance though beads of sweat had gathered on his brow.  "What would you say to me, sir, of Mrs. Lily Bottoms?" he said.

Bilbo bowed in return and began.

"I was on friendly terms with the family; Mister Tom, Mistress Lily and their daughter Meribell Bottoms.  A dustman, he was, and a stout, proud fellow.  He died several years ago leaving Lily and Meribell alone, but not penniless.  Or at least most assumed Mr. Tom had set something aside for them, for they continued to live in much the manner that they had used.  I thought no differently until Lily became ill."  Bilbo paused and squinted severely at Clearwater.  "Several days later, Meribell visited me at my home with a strange request.  Her mother was in desperate need and only a person of influence and means might be able to help her.  I was the only one who fit that description she felt she could turn to, so I agreed to meet her.

"Lily was dying.  Even I could tell it.  She told me then the matter of her finances and why she was so desperate.  She spoke of a fund that had been set up in her name through one of the local solicitors.  It was a trust that paid a small monthly stipend and was set up for her by YOU, Doctor Clearwater.  The account was to be closed upon her death and Lily feared for her daughter.  Meribell is unmarried and has few prospects.  Without the money from the trust, she would be left with no means to live.  Unfortunately, the trust was most strict in its terms.  It was for Lily only and would continue to be paid through her life only if she abided by them.  One of the terms was that she never try and contact you; a curious requirement, though only one of many peculiarities that engaged my interest.  She could not contact you to request a change in the beneficiary and her entreaties to the solicitor had been met with silence.  She implored me to journey here to see what I could do in person, and as you see, I have done so.  What Lily instructed me to request is that you transfer the benefit of this account to Meribell.  Meribell would agree to all existing stipulations."  He made a short, politic bow.

Clearwater listened to Bilbo's account with little emotion on his face, save a frown when Mrs. Bottom's illness was mentioned.  When he was finished, the doctor subtly relaxed, though only someone watching him as intently as Dody was would have noted it.

"There were many things about this meeting that puzzled me," continued Bilbo.  "Not least, why, if Lily Bottoms was on such friendly terms with such a renowned physician, was there no one by her deathbed?  Why was she so fearful that you would refuse to transfer the account?  Why was she so secretive that she drew a salary from the trust?  It was most peculiar, and I am very interested in hearing your explanation of the particulars, doctor."

Clearwater bowed very respectfully towards Bilbo in return, but he exuded an air of wary satisfaction.  Dody sensed something in that exchange had gone his way.

"She's a distant cousin," said Clearwater with a tolerant sigh.  "Several years ago, when I was beginning my medical career, I found the connection and went to visit them.  I've few relations of my own and was eager to meet them, but…"  He paused and sighed again.  "They were not what I had hoped.  Good people and honest, but not the same sort, if you understand me.  Common.  Nothing of breeding in them.  I stayed for a time and did what I felt was my obligation by the family, but they were very needy.  Lily especially, seemed to regard me with hungry eyes.  She was very kind, but I knew the type.  They had a claim on me, from the ties of blood, and would drain me if given the chance."

He straightened and drew a deep breath.  "So, I 'nipped it in the bud' as you so eloquently put it, Master Brandybuck.  I felt the obligation and so set up a fund for the family.  Mr. Bottoms would have nothing to do with my charity, nor would Meribell, so I made Lily beneficiary.  She kept it to supplement the family's income - and provide it after Mr. Bottoms had passed.  I… I did not know about Lily's illness until you spoke, Mr. Baggins.  I do not understand why the solicitors have not passed her request on to me, but I will most certainly journey to Bywater immediately and do what I can."

"There is no need," said Bilbo icily.  "Mrs. Bottoms died 3 days ago."

Clearwater blinked once, then twice and passed a hand over his eyes.  "Excuse me," he said and returned to the table to sit and take a drink of his tea with a tense hand.  He looked like he was trying very hard to retain his composure.  After a moment he spoke again.

"That was very sudden," he said softly.  "She was strong.  I would not have expected such a rapid decline."

"She had been ill for a long time.  It was only known of when she could hide it no longer."

Clearwater nodded.  Menegilda came forward and draped a comforting arm over the doctor's shoulder.

"Your charity and concern are admirable, doctor.  I grieve with you," she said patting his arm.  Dody shifted uncomfortably, but could not look away.  Either Clearwater was putting on the most flawless performance of his career or he was truly grieving from Bilbo's news.  From what Dody knew of the hobbit, the latter seemed unlikely, but he couldn't help feeling just a little sorry for him.

Clearwater looked up at her and smiled gratefully.  "You are a jewel among hobbits, my dear Madam Brandybuck.  I did what I could for them.  I wish I could have done more, but I had my own life to consider.  How would it look to have an up and coming physician tied to a family such as that?"

Now it was Menegilda's turn to blink in uncomfortable surprise.  "Family is family, doctor," she said, taken aback.

"Yes, but some relations aren't exactly people we would want others to know we were tied to," he said with a bitter chuckle.  "I am sure you understand."  His eyes flicked over to Dody and the boy felt a rush of heat wash his face.

"What exactly do you mean, doctor?" Menegilda asked.  Dody could hear the warning in her voice, but Clearwater was so wrapped up in his own grief that he seemed unable to see what dangerous ground he was treading.  He usually played the subtle game of influence and favor so effortlessly that Dody could hardly believe he could make such a misstep.

"Now I understand."  Drogo said, completely disgusted.  "I couldn't, before.  I could not even imagine what drive could possibly make someone abandon their family, but now I can."

"What do you both mean?" demanded an increasingly irritated Rory.  "Come now, if you fellows have something to against the doctor, let's be out with it.  So far you've accused him of nothing more than missing a funeral and feeling superior to poor relations.  Those are less than admirable, perhaps, but hardly damning."

Bilbo's eyes blazed fiercely.  "No," he agreed.  "Those would not be damning accusations if that was all there was to the matter.  If Ms. Lily Bottoms had been the distant relative he claims, there would be nothing to reproach him for, but I have it on good authority that she was, in fact, his own mother."

Clearwater's head snapped up.  The wild panic in his eyes testified that the older hobbit had struck true.  He fixed furiously on Dody and then on Bilbo, who brought his stick up in defensive answer.

"By Meribell's word," Bilbo growled, now trembling in righteous anger.  "You were born Albarus Bottoms, but changed your name to Clearwater when you came of age.  Your father and sister would have renounced you for it, but your devoted mother would not let them.  You offered her money to never reveal your name and for love of her son, she agreed."

Clearwater started up from his chair.  "You LIE!" he screamed, trembling.  "You have NO proof of this!  Meribell is nothing but a bitter, spiteful old maid.  Her word isn't worth the breath it took to speak it!"

"Your mother had in her possession the agreement she signed," spat Drogo, at his cousin's side and looking ready to defend him at need.  "And the record of your birth.  She may never have revealed your secret, but the only thing that keeps Meribell's silence now is Lily's last request; that she continue to honor this agreement if you transfer the trust to her."

Clearwater was livid and, for the first time that Dody had ever seen, losing control.  His fists shook with rage as he looked frantically about the room.  All parties were allied against him now.  Even Menegilda, beyond astonishment and ready to collapse, stared at him as if he had become some kind of monster.  Her mouth gaped wordlessly and her hands worked obsessively over her handkerchief.  Rory stood by her elbow, grim but looking less than surprised at the developments.  The poor little solicitor, nearly forgotten in the flurry of activity, had stopped in the midst of stuffing documents into his case and watched, aghast, as Clearwater's face turned a red that nearly rivaled Menegilda's handkerchief.  Bilbo and Drogo were poised as a pair of hunting dogs who had their quarry cornered, and Dody…

Dody smiled.

It was a cold, involuntary gesture and it crept across his face almost before he'd been aware of it.  Clearwater was beaten and he knew it.  Though Dody had not orchestrated the fall, his actions had cleverly served it.  He had spoken at precisely the right time and in the right manner to rock Clearwater's carefully orchestrated composure.  He had trapped this snake as cleverly as Clearwater had tried to entrap him.  Suddenly, he saw in himself the rudiments of the skill the doctor used so successfully.  He too could learn to toy with the hearts and minds of others, maneuvering them as if they were playthings and taking from them what he desired.  Such power could become addictive.  But even as he thought it, Dody realized he had something the doctor did not.  Something his mother had given him.  Something he had forgotten he possessed until a young boy showed it to him.  Compassion.  He could never use people as Clearwater had.  Not anymore.

But, he could still take pleasure in watching the spectacular demise of one who had sought to use him.

When Clearwater's gaze fell upon Dody again and he saw the boy's smile, it was as if the last strand of his reason left him.  He seemed to explode.

"YOU!" he screamed, his face now turning a shade of purple.  "A lifetime's work destroyed and you SMILE?"

Without another word, he fell upon Dody and wrapped his fingers around the boy's throat.  His rage lent him astonishing strength.  He lifted the wiry lad off his feet and slammed him bodily into the parlor wall behind them.  Stars danced before Dody's eyes and he heard shouts and screams above his own constricted breath.  Clearwater's fingers began to close about his throat and Dody clawed desperately at them.  He could see the maniacal look in the older hobbit's eyes and suddenly knew this was an enemy who could kill him.  Even his enraged father had not been as deadly an opponent.  He kicked at Clearwater's legs but the other hobbit crushed him against the wall with his own body.  Other hands were pulling at the doctor's arms and other voices were shouting, but Dody fixed on the words the doctor whispered sickeningly in his ear.

"I'll teach you to smile," he hissed.  His forefingers pressed hard into the hollows between Dody's jawbone and throat from both sides.  Hobbits were attacking the doctor but he stood like a mad thing, resolute, immobile, and laid his forehead on his near-apprentice's own.  A swift roaring began in Dody's ears and darkness began closing the periphery of his vision.  He saw Clearwater's dark eyes glittering and sensed a cruel smile on his lips.  Clearwater was going to kill him.  Then he glimpsed Rory as if from far off.  His uncle was rushing at them but instead of growing larger in his sight, the burly hobbit was getting smaller and smaller in the center of a darkening field.  A great weight slammed into Dody with the force of a charging bull and the stars returned, but this time they were snuffed out by blackness.

TBC

^{1 - The name 'Hildefons Brownlock' is used courtesy of the darling Ghyste Mortua, author of the scathingly funny 'Physician, Heal Thyself' http://www.frodosharem.org/cgi-bin/stories/display.cgi?id=222&sort=date&cat=3  and one of the most wonderful haremites I know.  : Thank you, my dear.}

Tying Up The Ends

"He's waking," said a low, concerned voice. "Take this." And suddenly there was a brighter light in Dody's eyes. He groaned and turned away from it. Consciousness also brought pain that felt as if someone had split his head open with a hatchet.

"Easy there," crooned the voice more cheerily. Then it added, "Where's the healer?" in a soft undertone.

"Drogo's getting her," answered another, deeper one. "I don't think that villain did anything permanent to the lad. We stopped him in time, I think. And I can't imagine any hobbit, even one as contemptible as that fellow, would purposefully try and kill."

Dody shivered, remembering dark eyes glittering malevolently.

"Where?" he croaked.

"You're in your aunt's guestroom, child. We carried you here after you fell."

"No," the boy said more urgently. "Where's…?"

"Clearwater?" It was Mr. Bilbo Baggins speaking. He almost spat the name. "I hope on his way to the lockholes at Stock! Good riddance to bad baggage, if you ask me." He made a disgusted noise. "He'll be no bother to you again, my boy."

Dody let out a breath as the words sank into his still foggy head. Clearwater was gone and, even though he'd seen the manner of his fall, it took a moment to grasp what that meant. He settled into the soft pillow, feeling suddenly more at ease than he had felt in years.

"I wonder what on earth that fellow was so set on Dody for?" the other voice murmured. Dody felt his arm being patted comfortingly.

"Because he's a Brandybuck," answered Bilbo. "Considering the lengths he was willing to go through to disguise his own connections, it's no wonder he was desperate to tie himself to you folk, somehow. He couldn't marry into the family, thank goodness, but he could apprentice Dody." The chair that had been pulled up by the bedside creaked as its occupant settled back. "I shudder to think what he would have done to the lad if he had succeeded."

That comment made Dody open his eyes. Bilbo sat deep in thought beside the bed but he had a hard look on his face. The other hobbit, Dody's cousin Saradoc, stood at the head of the bed and, noting Dody's increasing attentiveness, smiled at him with unabashed joy.

"There you are! You gave us quite a fright, cousin," he said. "Mother nearly fainted when they pulled the doctor off and I don't think father will ever forgive himself for what Clearwater did to you in his smial. You'll be glad to know they've vowed to prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law; banishment from the Shire, or at least Buckland. Mother even admitted she was wrong about him in front of Drogo." Saradoc laughed. "Can you imagine it?"

Dody squinted through his headache. Surely he was more injured than he realized. It sounded like his elder cousin, who had never given him more than passing notice, was chatting merrily with him. Saradoc grinned, though there seemed to remain a touch of worry in his smile. Dody's own mouth twitched up, almost of its own volition, in response and the older hobbit laughed outright.

"Oh, you will be all right! I told them you were stouter than you looked. Well done, lad!"

The laughing shout made Dody wince, but the concern his cousin showed him was a pleasing surprise. He had not been aware that Saradoc even knew who he was.

"Why... Why are you here?" he managed to whisper.

"I was to be a witness to the apprenticeship contract," Saradoc grinned. "But I'm not disappointed I won't be needed anymore. When I was a boy, I used to dread visits from Clearwater. I rarely got sick, but when I did, I would do anything to avoid seeing him." He shuddered in mock distaste. "I see I was right to avoid him, eh?"

Dody nodded once, which was all his still aching head felt like managing, but he kept his wondering eyes on his yellow-haired cousin.

"I'm...sorry," he managed. "I didn't mean to cause such trouble. I didn't want to provoke him, I..."

"Nonsense, lad," Bilbo assured coming out of his thoughts. "You were simply the easiest victim. And if it weren't for you, that snake's true nature would not have been revealed. No one blames you for what happened."

"No indeed!" confirmed Saradoc.

Voices and the sound of the outer door of the apartment being opened made them both turn. Drogo's baritone was directing someone to the small room and a moment later the bright face of Daisy Burrows appeared in the doorway, Drogo behind her.

"Awake, bless him!" Drogo said. "We were worried Rory's tackle had crushed the life out of you, but I see you're a tough little fellow too."

Daisy came forward and dropped her bag beside the bed before leaning over him. She smiled and her fingers traced soothingly over his face. "Let's have a look at you at least, shall we?" she asked cheerily.

The examination was brief but thorough and when she found the tender spots at the back of his jaw, she nodded gravely.

"Well, he knew his business, certainly," she murmured, her face hardening with disapproval. "I expect you've got a blistering headache?"

Dody nodded slowly.

"There's no permanent harm though, is there?" asked Saradoc.

Daisy shook her head and the sparkle returned to her eyes as she patted Dody's cheek. "Seems not. He'll have that headache for a while and should rest the day out, but," she grinned. "I expect my sullen helper will be fit by this time tomorrow."

"Dody?" Drogo nodded, coming forward too. "I told you I had found you another situation, do you remember?" The boy looked up at him. "It's with Miss Daisy, if you're willing. She was pleased with your work as well, and when I asked her if she'd be interested in taking on an apprentice and teaching them the healing arts, she said she would be honored to have you."

Dody blinked, again wondering if he was hearing things.

"Miss Daisy?" he asked in an astonished whisper. "Me?"

Daisy nodded vigorously, apparently delighted with his humble surprise. "Quite honored!" she said. "You've a gruff manner, but a careful touch and, from what I have seen, you respect people. That's something I can't teach, but it makes a world of difference. I think you'd make as fine an apprentice as I could ever wish for."

Dody lay with his mouth gaping for a full minute as amused and delighted smiles grew on every face in the room. This could not be possible, he thought, as he stared up at the kindly face of the healer. His lip began to tremble and he swallowed hard.

"I don't know what to say," he gasped in an overwhelmed whisper.

"Say, yes," offered Bilbo, smiling.

And at that, the grinning faces around him swirled in a blur of grateful, astonished tears.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Bilbo had heard of Frodo's fall soon after it happened. Such news was, as one might expect, spread more quickly than happy tidings would ever be, and he had asked Drogo how his son fared when the other hobbit came to Hobbiton. His inquiry had been answered with the expected assurance that the boy was improving rapidly and that nothing could keep a Baggins down for long, but Bilbo had not missed the tenseness in Drogo's jaw, nor the fear in his eyes. This had been a near thing, a very near thing, and Bilbo had felt fear tighten his own throat. He had had a sudden, absurd notion of traveling to Buckland and it surprised him to realize that, if he had not had company, he might have done it that very night.

'Frodo almost died,' was the unspoken truth that Bilbo could read in his cousin's face, and that realization was almost as painful to the old hobbit as it was to the boy's father.

Bilbo was a confirmed old bachelor if there ever was one, but he had learned to be more patient with children in the past few years. His neighbor, and now gardener, Ham, and his wife seemed to produce a new one every year, or so it seemed, and it might have been that he had simply got used to them running about. But Bilbo had another theory. He attributed his newfound tolerance to the fact that he had at last met a child in whom he could see more than just noise, mischief and a lot of bother.

He had never been able to understand how he knew it, but his cousin's son was a very special child. The bright little boy with eyes the color of autumn skies had found a place in Bilbo's heart that seemed to have been ready made and waiting for him. In Frodo, Bilbo saw what treasures could come from his people and so loved them all the more for it. He also felt that he and the child were bound, connected in some mystical way that went beyond the ties of blood. It was as if in this one child, Bilbo could see the best of himself reborn, and the knowledge that Frodo existed and would live on in the world gave the old hobbit immeasurable comfort.

And now, 'He almost died...'

The detour to Rory's chambers had been necessary, and the news brought to Drogo's in-laws had been just in time, but now, with those matters settled satisfactorily, Bilbo was eager to see his little cousin. It had been two years since Drogo moved his little family back to Buckland and, though he had missed Drogo's frequent visits, their trips to the Green Dragon for ale, and their occasional visits to the Ivy Bush, which would start the talk about 'Mad Baggins' for visiting such a working class establishment, he found himself missing the sweet and hope-filled presence of Drogo's son as well.

The lump that had formed in Bilbo's throat from the moment he heard Drogo speak had not released him since. Now, as he walked Brandy Hall's corridors behind his cousin, he could feel the fear that fed it. Frodo had almost died. The last sight he had had of the boy was of a pair of luminous, innocent eyes, peering mournfully over the cart's seat as it began its slow descent down the hill. That image was the most vivid one Bilbo had of the day Drogo's family left and now it haunted him. The realization that that light in those eyes might almost have been extinguished was like a physical pain, one that nothing but the sight of the lad himself would cure.

He wished Drogo would hurry. If it would not have been unseemly, he'd have poked his cousin in the backside to spur him onwards.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

At last, Drogo slowed and turned at a small door at the side of the smial. He entered after a knock and Bilbo's eyes were struck by the sunlight that filled the room. It was an airy, pleasant hole despite the dark hall and Bilbo smiled to see Primula stand at the table and curtsey gracefully towards him.

"Oh, Bilbo!" she smiled with unrestrained delight. "What an absolute delight to see you! I have missed your company so very much." She ran to him and gave him a breathless hug. Bilbo blushed at the armful of stunning, warm hobbitess, but returned her hug with true affection.

"And I've missed you, my dear, more than you will ever know! It was so heartless of you to take my dear cousin, that delightful boy of yours, not to mention your devastatingly beautiful self, so far away from me! I don't know if I will ever recover from the heartbreak you have caused me."

Primula beamed, as happy and charmed as a schoolgirl. "I am heartless, aren't I?" she grinned, all dimples and dark curls. "But now I have you, my precious family and my childhood home all in one place! It was a plot, you see." She winked and Bilbo roared appreciatively.

"Speaking of your precious family," he began, "Where is that boy of yours? I've come all this way to see him, too, you know."

"Yes, I am well aware of who your real favorite is," she teased. "But he's resting just now. He had a bit of a setback yesterday, trying to do too much too fast, and is back to his bed under healer's orders." She winked. "But I imagine he'd be delighted to see you've come. Here, have a seat by the bed and I'll wake him."

"Oh, please, Primula. If he's in need of rest, don't wake him yet. I'll just sit by his bedside for a while and rest myself. Give me a chance to catch my breath and give him a good look over and assure myself he's all right."

Primula's sweet face softened into an understanding smile. Drogo placed a hand on his cousin's shoulder and squeezed it, also understanding.

"You sit then, and watch him while Primula and I go get some elevenses for all of us. She's been with him all morning and could use a sniff of air. With you here, we know he could not be in better hands." Drogo took his wife's hand in his, a triumphant grin on his face. "Come, my lass. While we walk, I'll tell you some news that you'd best hear from a witness, for you'd not believe it otherwise."

As the door closed behind them, Bilbo settled onto the chair by Frodo's bed, much as he had earlier done by Dody's.

His first clear sight of the boy did very little to comfort him. Frodo was still a small child with features so charmingly wrought that Bilbo could almost believe the old legend that there was faerie blood in the Tooks he so resembled. But those features were now far too pale for a young hobbit in midsummer. His dark lashes lay in an impossibly thick sweep above his wan cheeks and his thick, dark locks were shorn close to his head. Nearly healed bruises shadowed his face and the faint scabs of a multitude of scratches covered much of the skin that was visible. His arms lay on top of the coverlet and on one Bilbo could see the bulky outline of a brace under the nightshirt he wore. Frodo's injuries must have been very dire indeed for the signs of them to still remain so many weeks after the fall and Bilbo's heart lurched as that realization struck home. But even with so many signs of hurt, the child was breathing the comforting breaths of deepest sleep. Bilbo took the sound into his heart.

'He almost died, but he didn't...'

Bilbo had not realized how firmly his mind had latched onto imagining the worst what might have happened. But no, his bright one was indeed whole and would be all right. The best of his people was not lost. Blinking back an unbidden tear, he leaned forward and gratefully kissed the child's small brow.

Frodo stirred then, perhaps sensing a less familiar presence, and sighed. His eyelids fluttered open and Bilbo was again struck by the brilliance of their blue.

"Bilbo?" he gasped and smiled, struggling to rise on one arm. He managed it very handily, Bilbo noted. "Oh, Uncle, you've come to see me!" The little child wrapped him in a tight embrace that drew a deep and delighted chuckle from the old hobbit.

"I came as soon as I could manage, lad," he replied. "Though if you aren't careful, you'll choke me before we've had a chance to visit."

"Oh!" Frodo leaned back, holding his splinted arm only slightly more gingerly than the unharmed one. "Sorry, uncle! I didn't mean it! I'm just so very happy to see you! Did you bring me anything from Hobbiton? How long have you been here? Why didn't you come with father? I have missed you so terribly!"

The questions followed one after another so rapidly that Bilbo, laughing, held his arms up as if to staunch the stream of them. "One at a time, boy! I've only two ears, and one mouth, and a doddering mind in between them."

Frodo sat back, obediently quieted, but beaming with obvious joy.

"First, I did bring you something in my trunk, and I will retrieve it later, when you are up and about. I intend to have a full, long visit and I wanted this first reintroduction to be mine and not have your attention diverted by some trinket from Dale."

"From Dale?" squeaked Frodo not hiding even an ounce of his delight.

"You see what I mean?" the older hobbit admonished. "Now how would I know if it was me you were happy to see, or just what I brought you?"

Frodo grinned broadly at the silly old hobbit but bounced with excitement, knowing Bilbo would not make him wait too long for his present.

"I have been here only a few hours. I didn't come yesterday because of some business I had to attend to, but you know nothing could have kept me away long, once I'd heard of your predicament."

"Oh, I am much better now, uncle," Frodo assured him. "Daisy says so!"

"Yes," Bilbo said carefully, looking down at him with as much severity as he could manage. "This is the same Daisy who has instructed you to remain in bed after some business yesterday?"

Frodo's face flushed and he shook his head. "I just wanted to show father how much better I was. Mother wouldn't let me walk anywhere after the accident and so I didn't have much chance to practice. I'm afraid I didn't do very well."

"What did you do?" Bilbo asked.

Frodo looked down and picked at the coverlet, but he was grinning shyly. "It doesn't sound like much, but I walked from the main door almost to the picnic grounds." He looked up then, his eyes shining with pride. "I hadn't been able to do that before."

Despite the sunny room, Bilbo felt the chill of concern returning. "Why couldn't you walk?" he asked. "Did you hurt your legs too?"

"Oh, I got these terrible headaches, uncle! They were so bad I'd get sick to my stomach and it would feel like the world was spinning like a top! And there were these shadows that would come out from the sides of my eyes and make everything look like you were peering through a little bitty smial. Oh, they made me feel dreadful! And they got worse if I tried to walk or do anything." He shook his head. "Mother and Daisy said that things would get better if I just took care, but it's hard to just sit for so long, especially when the other children are playing and singing and laughing outside." Frodo's eyes took on a look that reminded Bilbo sharply of a hound begging for forgiveness after being caught chasing the chickens. "And I'm so dreadfully tired of being ill," he sighed.

Bilbo's heart lurched in pity and tenderness. He remembered a summer or two of his own youth, spent recovering in a sickbed.

"It's hard to keep quiet and rest when the sun's shining brightly," he offered softly. "But you know your parents simply want to see you well as quickly as you can be."

"Yes, uncle," came the mournful reply.

"Well," said Bilbo slapping his knees determinately. "I see what my task shall be this visit."

Frodo looked up. "Uncle?"

"I shall endeavor to make your remaining convalescence so pleasant and busy that you will be fully recovered before you are even aware of it."

"Oh, yes, please, Uncle! What shall we do first?"

"Well, the very first thing, you've already done. I haven't had a proper hug since you left Hobbiton." The older hobbit's eyes twinkled. "And I suspect you haven't had a proper tickle since then either."

The boy squirmed back, ready to counter the attack he could see coming, but his grin broadened almost to his ears. "You wouldn't dare!" he challenged.

"Oh, my dear boy, I've dared dragons and spiders, what's a diminutive Baggins after that?"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

When Primula and Drogo returned, their arms laden with the still warm second breakfast, they could hear the peal of breathless, excited giggles all the way down the tunnel.

TBC

Chapter 22 - Forgiveness

Into the sanctified quiet of predawn, Primula Baggins woke.  Curled against her beloved, she could hear his heart beating a slow and regular rhythm.  Beyond it, there was the high, sweet whisper of her son's breath, but all else was silent. 

She slipped noiselessly from her bed and as she moved through her morning rituals, a cloak of stillness seemed settled upon the dark.  Even after she had stoked the fire and walked out to the privy, there was no blush of dawn on the horizon.  Perhaps it was earlier than it felt, but Primula could almost sense the whole world was holding its breath, loath to let go of this precious moment.  She contemplated the stars and marveled at the silence before slipping into the smial again.

Neither of her lads had stirred; the big nor the little, and she leaned back against the closed door to watch them sleep.  In every race and throughout the history of Middle-earth, mothers have arisen before all to count the sleeping heads of babes and contemplate the peaceful ease that has crept unawares onto their mate's furrowed brow, but this contented hobbit lady was only dimly aware of the ageless call she answered.

Hobbits did not hold much with superstition.  To most, even elven magic, which their own legends acknowledged, had nothing to do with them and they, therefore, had no call to be meddling with it.  But even the most staid and practical hobbit would give a nod to the West once in a while, and unless there was good reason not to, would heed the warnings of a dream.  There was no harm in it.  And while Primula was neither the most foolish gossip nor the most educated and wise, there were some things she chose to believe.

On the day her son had been born, when she had first laid eyes upon his sweet face, she had seen the ghostly impression of another beyond it.  It had Drogo's brow and bright eyes like hers, but they were wiser and more sorrowful than any hobbit's she had ever seen.  In that moment love had pierced her; deeper than any she had ever felt.  She knew this was her son as he would someday be and, in that moment, she lost her heart to him.

Though she acknowledged the fleeting sight was most likely a product of her exhausted imagination, she had held to that vision.  However fanciful she knew it to be, it was her proof, through those first days, that this child would live.  She had seen nothing like it in the still face of her firstborn.  It had been a comfort to believe it, and so she did for a long time, but this last terrible injury had shown her that that comfort was founded on something she had not wholly trusted - herself.  

'Nothing is for certain in this world…'

Drogo's words came back to her and she let his rich voice drape over her memory.  Though she loved her husband, she had the feeling she understood this better than he did.  She could make some things certain.  She could believe in the promise she had been given at Frodo's birth.  She could live her life as if the precious gifts she had now would always and ever be hers.  What good had fearing the future done her anyway?  It had made her close her heart and shun the very thing she had lived for. 

But believing in herself and the vision of Frodo she had had at his birth meant believing in all that she had seen.  The image of him, alone, throwing flowers on the Brandywine came to her.  She sighed.  She knew what that vision meant too, but if she was to believe in herself and her own strength, she must accept it all.  One must take the bitter with the sweet.  But acceptance did not mean one had to dwell on the bitter.  Living afraid of what she could not change was not really living, and it was time she got back to the business of it.

It was as if a weight was lifted from her heart.  The last foothold of fear was gone and she felt almost giddy.  It was time to live again and enjoy and love and hold what she had now.  She stood and, with a gentle smile and a light step, went to her sleeping son.  She kissed his brow and drew the curtains of his alcove, then turned to the entry of the smial that served as her bedroom.  Drogo was still sleeping but the morning's mystical hush was slowly giving way.  Time was resuming its course, as it always would.  Primula reached for the buttons of her nightdress and began to undo them.  She would no longer waste a second of it.

*****************

That September was one of the finest in the memory of even the eldest Brandybucks.  Each day dawned bright and clear, with that crisp coolness that seemed to stir the body with restlessness, and each afternoon lingered as if the sun were a jealous lover, loath to part with its golden Shire.  Sheaves of ripe barley and oats littered the fields and the normally busy Bucklanders positively bustled to bring them in.  The leaf harvest was rich and plentiful and the cured and cut plant was barreled and piled on wagons to be shipped to storehouses from Michel Delving to Bree.  There were bountiful winter vegetables too, and the stores of parsnips and potatoes, turnips and beets were filled to such bursting as to dismay even the most upbeat child.  It was a glorious autumn and it was topped off for Frodo Baggins by having his favorite cousin, Bilbo, at table for his birthday feast.  He did note that it was also Bilbo's birthday but as everyone was so overjoyed to see him hale and healthy again (or nearly so), the celebration focused mainly on him.

He received many gifts, but, because of his injury, he had not been able to prepare any presents for others.  His relations were gratefully delighted to be able to help him in that regard.  For his father, Uncle Rory and Aunt Menegilda had had a beautiful yellow waistcoat made.  It was of very rich brocade with brass buttons in which Frodo could see his own image.  For his mother, they had given a comb carved from the wood of an oak tree and covered with fanciful creatures that Frodo couldn't quite identify.  Drogo had gotten a leather-bound book as his gift for Bilbo, but Frodo, fanning the creamy blank pages, felt compelled by those wide expanses of empty paper and wished he could have kept it.  Finally, knowing his uncle would make much better use of it than he could, he wrapped the precious thing in a piece of blue wool and a ribbon and set it by the fire with the rest of the presents.

Frodo was feeling better.  Not himself as yet, and Mistress Daisy warned him he might never feel exactly as he had before, but at least the headaches were gone.  He could very nearly do everything he had done before, though at a slower pace than was his wont.  He would go on long walks with his parents and buggy rides with his uncle Bilbo, but they weren't ready to let him out to play with the other children of the hall yet.  Even Dody was gone, spending his days with Mistress Daisy, and though Frodo might have preferred a livelier companion than his dour cousin, he still missed the company of those closer to his own age. 

The other thing that bothered Frodo was that he felt different than he had used to.  He couldn't put his finger on just how, but something fundamental about the world seemed to have changed.  The sun was as bright and the trees as yellow as they had ever been in autumn, but he seemed to see them now with new eyes.  His mother, laughing, assured him it was because he was growing up, and doing it so fast that he had no time to get used to new vantage before he had grown some more, but even in her joyful reply there was something Frodo could almost perceive, but not. 

It was good to hear her laugh again, though.  It was no longer the laugh that could brighten up any day like a ray of unexpected sunshine, but it had surprising strength in it.  It made him feel safe in the way only his father's arms had before.  She was not afraid of him any more, either.  Whether it was his halting walk or his father's return that had done it, Frodo didn't know, but she had come back to him, and was, in fact, more attentive than she had ever been before.  Perhaps she was sorry for pushing him away, or, having almost lost him, realized how dear he was to her.  Frodo didn't care.  He was delighted with the change.  She was at last his dear mother again, and father, whose love he had never questioned, was there with them both.  No matter what strange awareness seemed to fill the very air around him now, Frodo was no longer afraid of what lay ahead.

***************

After Bilbo had returned to Hobbiton, Drogo sent an invitation to Dody Brandybuck.  Drogo was savoring the last days of good fishing and wished to treat the boy with an outing to assure his nephew that all was forgiven and that he really was grateful for all he had done.  Dody was given leave from Daisy, who was a very easy mistress, and joined his uncle at the great hall early on a Saturday morning in late September.  Frodo was there, blinking tiredly, but leaning against his father in easy content.  His manner suggested he was feeling very important and grown up at being invited to go fishing with adults, and that, despite his sleepiness, he would not have given up his place for the world. 

"You look much better, Frodo," Dody said as the three of them walked down the path in the early morning light. 

The youngster beamed.  "I am better!" he agreed enthusiastically.  "I've only had one headache all month, but mother and father still won't let me out of their sight!"  He rolled his eyes dramatically.  "While fishing is all right, most of the time grown ups are terribly dull company."  He jumped a bit and whirled playfully in front of them.  "See?  'Right as rain'.  Since you're a healer now, will you tell them it's all right for me to play with the other children?"

Drogo laughed and Dody held up his hands.

"Well, now, I'm not a healer yet, and even if I was, your parents would still have final say.  You'll have to find your reprieve somewhere else, Frodo."

The youngster scowled playfully, but was off again a moment later, running ahead of the older hobbits, darting off the path when something caught his eye and running back, breathless, with some other wonder for his father to examine and nod gravely over.  The child covered more than twice the distance his companions did from Brandy Hall to the river and Dody shook his head in amusement. 

"He certainly seems fit, though you'd know better, uncle.  Was he always this… energetic?"

Drogo laughed again.  "Oh, yes, though it's early yet.  Wait till he rubs all the sleep from his eyes and has his breakfast tea," he shook the satchel he carried to indicate where their breakfast lay, "and then you shall see 'energy'.  I dare say we will need to send him off to play or he will scare every fish away from our lines!"

Dody rolled his own eyes at the prospect of having to deal with an even more rambunctious child and grinned wryly.  "I suppose, then, that I shouldn't set my heart on fish for dinner?"

*********************

The late fall sun was warming the bank quite pleasantly by the time the three hobbits settled down for elevenses.  The heavy coats the early morning chill had warranted now served as comfortable seats and after the meal had been eaten, Drogo lay back on his to look at the clouds and have a pipe.  Frodo curled against his side and promptly fell asleep in the crook of his arm.  Dody sat watching the two of them for a while before he too pulled out a small clay pipe.  He looked at it for a few moments, turning it over in his hands, before shyly asking Drogo if he would be willing to spare him some of his weed.

"Dame Burrows is a kind mistress, but she's far from rich.  She pays me in food, lodging and education, but little else.  And Menegilda would never allow me to use my legacy for an indulgence like pipeweed."

Drogo chuckled and passed over the pouch and the boy began inexpertly filling his pipe.  The older hobbit's smile faded as he watched.  When Dody had finished, he looked up.  Though Drogo masked it quickly, Dody caught the sad pity in his eyes.  He blushed, wondering if he had somehow displeased his companion, and quickly handed the pouch back.  The other hobbit took it and held out for the pipe as well.  After a moment's uncertainty, Dody gave it to him.

"There's a trick to it," Drogo said softly, leaning up carefully so as not to wake Frodo.  He beckoned Dody for a closer look and cupped the small vessel in his hand as if it were a fragile egg.  "You use your thumb like this," he pressed slowly into the bowl and then began turning the pipe so as to cover the entire surface of the packed leaf.  "You hold it like this and press down till it's firm but not to the point of breaking the clay.  You will get a feel for it.  Then, once you have that layer evenly packed, you put in a bit more and pack it down the same way.  Fill it till it is to the brim or just under."  He handed it back to the boy.  "It becomes second nature after a while."

Dody nodded and smiled a fleeting, sheepish smile.  He took a glowing stick from the fire to light it and passed the ember off to Drogo.  The two of them sat in silence for a long while after, gazing out at the water.  Dody took a couple of puffs on his pipe, but mostly let it smolder.  He was not used to it yet, and didn't like the odd flavor it left in his mouth, nor the faintly queasy feeling it gave him.  His gaze wandered towards his companions again.  Drogo had leaned back and was absently stroking Frodo's fair brow.  The boy was deep in slumber, his little features half buried in Drogo's jacket.  Dody did not doubt the child would sleep till luncheon (which Drogo had also brought) after the morning's early and vigorous exercise.  He frowned, a faint curiosity stirring him.  He felt the need to ask a question, but wasn't certain how Drogo would respond.  Finally, he just asked it.

"Why did you look at me that way just now, Mr. Baggins?  You looked so sad." 

Drogo's eyes flicked over to his and he paused, as if considering.  He took the pipe from his mouth.

"Because a thought struck me that I found sad.  That is all."

"What thought?  If you don't mind my asking."

Drogo sat up on his elbow and returned the boy's even and open gaze.  "I only realized," he began, "That you likely had no one to teach you the ways of pipe or the rod."  He sighed.  "You deserve more than a few kind words or a day's outing now and again, but that's all I can give, and that made me sad."  He flushed a little and frowned.  "I am sorry, Dody.  My feelings are ungenerous in this matter and it shows in my words no matter how carefully I speak them.  Better I had said nothing."  He looked down.

With a spreading shock, Dody perceived Drogo's meaning.  No one to teach you what your father ought.  He shivered despite the sunlight and stared at Drogo who had begun pensively caressing his son's dark head.  The love on Drogo's face was fierce and sweet and he found himself thinking that his own father had never looked at him with such tenderness.  He drew in a sharp breath and blinked back unexpected tears.

He hadn't thought of Dodinas in months.  The respite from his father's house had seemed strange and uncomfortable at first, but he was at last getting used to it.  This summer had been one of many changes and revelations, and he did feel differently, but he had not recognized the nature of that difference.  It now came to him as clear as day.  He wasn't frightened any more.  Dody had always lived with fear.  That was simply the way things were, but now that he could step back and examine his life from a little distance, he saw it clearly for the first time.  Everything he'd done and become was a product of it and yet he'd been blind to the fact until that moment.  He sat back, astonished and turned the new revelation over in his mind.

"You know," he said, after several minutes.  "You'd be amazed what a child can get used to."  The words had been spoken softly, but the bitterness in them shocked even him.  Elation and outrage rose hot in him, at last given an enemy as target again, but shame checked them both.  Wasn't his rage the very thing he had sworn to forsake?  And to feel it directed towards his father…  No matter what the hobbit had done to him, that seemed the worst failing of all.  He looked away, embarrassed of his thought and of speaking so venomously and saddened that his new temperance could be overcome so quickly. 

"If you wish to speak, Dody, I will listen in confidence.  I sense that you have a great need to talk."  Drogo's face was kindly but sad again.  Dody trembled.  His need to unburden his heart was indeed very great, though he felt unwilling to reveal his unwholesome thoughts.  Neither was it his manner to speak so openly.  Only his mother had ever truly known his heart.  For a long while nature and necessity fought in him. 

"I thought it was my doing," he whispered finally.  "That I was so base a creature that he was right to deal with me as he did."  Dody hung his head low and his dark curls fell over his face, making it easier to speak somehow.  "It never once occurred to me that what he was doing might be wrong.  Even now it seems evil to think it."  He wiped his eyes and looked out at the glittering river.  Seeing Drogo's face now would silence him and he needed to say this while he had the courage.  "Perhaps it was easier to think I had no worth, and to become a creature that deserved contempt, than to consider that my father might be…"  Tightness bound his throat and Dody fell silent.  Tears fell from his tightly closed eyes and for many minutes the two of them sat still as stone.  Finally, Dody mastered himself again and wiped his eyes. 

"But he can't hurt me any more," he sighed.  "I got away from him.  I am bitter, and maybe I'll always be, but he can't touch me again."  He drew himself up shakily, but unbent.  "I'm also my mother's son and vowed on her memory to put aside anger.  I'll be all right."  A fleeting smile touched his lips.  "You gave me something, too.  You and my aunt, though on her part begrudgingly."  At that, Drogo snorted.  "And now my mistress continues to give it.  The trust and faith you all showed me was…"  Dody paused, searching for the right words.  "Humbling," he looked back at Drogo and gave a slight shrug.  "And a little painful.  Like salve to a wound I didn't know I had." 

Then he paused, and both hobbits thought long on the words that had been spoken.  Drogo puffed silently on his pipe and Dody dumped the half burned leaf out of his and pocketed it.  The sun climbed to noon.  It would soon be time for luncheon.  Dody looked back at his companions and met Drogo's gentle brown eyes.  Frodo still slept.

"That was a welcome gift," he said.  "And I do believe you, but it seems one word from my father holds the weight of ten from anyone else.  I wish I could forget him.  I wish I could leave what he's done behind and truly make a new start."  He shook his head angrily.  "I don't understand it.  I know he was wrong, but…."  Finally he looked at Drogo imploringly.  "I'll never be rid of him, will I?"

Drogo took his pipe from his mouth.  "Perhaps not," he answered.  "The words our parents give us are held dearer than most realize, even when those words are foolish or cruel.  You will not, I think, be as Dodinas was, and pass on the legacy of abuse to your own children.  And that alone makes you worthy, my friend."

Dody frowned.  "What do you mean, Sir?"

Drogo shifted uncomfortably.  "Again, you induce me to speak when propriety demands I should stay silent!"  He shook his head.  "I was not privy to the workings of your family's house - even now that I am married into them, I am not one of the Brandybucks - but I sat at Gorbadoc's table for many a year, and kept my eyes open.  Your grandfather was a good hobbit, but stern, and more forgiving to his guests than to his own.  I don't think he ever liked Dodinas or perhaps he simply was disappointed in him, but there was never much love lost between them."  He frowned again.  "It was never spoken of, but I saw your father with bruises of his own often enough to guess things were not as they should have been between them.  I say this, not to excuse Dodinas, Dody.  I doubt you will ever forget what he has done, but perhaps healing does not come from forgetfulness, but from forgiveness?"  He looked at Dody very meaningfully.  "Knowing these things, could you, perhaps, someday, forgive your father?"

Dody stiffened.  "No," he said.  The word came out flat, vehement and final, and the boy shook with chill at the thought.  "I…  No.  It's not in me to forgive him."

Drogo sighed.  "I understand.  But don't dismiss the notion entirely.  In time, you may feel differently, and though I do not pretend to understand what you have gone through, I think that may be your only road to true healing."

Dody had no words to answer him.  Instead they sat for a long while in silence until Drogo lay back down beside his son again.  Dody stretched out on his own jacket.  The morning had revealed much to him and he was weary in mind if not in body.  The passing clouds soothed him and he watched them for a while, savoring their clean innocence.  Before he knew it, he was asleep.

************************

A startled cry woke him a little while later. 

"Frodo!" Drogo called again, desperately.  The fear in his voice roused Dody completely.  He leapt up to find that the two of them were alone on the riverbank and the sun was just past its height.  Little Frodo was nowhere to be seen.  Drogo, struggling to his feet, was scanning the water with a growing terror in his eyes.

"He was gone when I woke!  Blast!  Where has that boy got to?  He knows better than to stray near the river!" 

Dody looked upstream at the grassy banks that lead towards Bridgefields.  There was no sign of a small figure anywhere along the river's course. 

"How long were we asleep?" he asked.

"Less than an hour.  Curse it!  I had him held close and thought I would wake if he stirred!  What kind of foolish laggard have I become to not even be able to watch over my own child?"  He turned to Dody and the terror on his face was like a slap of icy wind.  Drogo was beside himself and panicking.  It was plain he feared his son had gone into the river.

"We'd have heard a splash," Dody said him quickly, suppressing his own sick dread at the thought. 

Drogo didn't waste another moment.  "Start looking!" he ordered.  "I will go downstream, you up.  Be quick.  Call if you see anything - footprints or any sign - be quick now!"  And before Dody could say anything more, Drogo was off, scanning the ground as he ran south along the fisherman's path for any indications that the child had gone that way.  Dody looked around their little picnicking spot, but footprints, mostly Frodo's, were everywhere.  He had been scampering about them busily all morning.  Dody ran to the periphery of the tamped grass and gazed into the waving fields of the floodplain to see if he could pick out any sign that went away from their camp. 

Many lines crossed and re-crossed the grasses behind their fishing spot.  The tracks of deer or cattle coming down to drink at the river mingled with later ones of Frodo's own.  The morning's dew, which might have indicated the freshest track, was long since burned off.  Dody peered across the fields.  They'd camped at a point where Buckland itself was very narrow.  He could see the High Hay looming in the distance and before it, on the far side of the Buckland road, a wood. 

That was the wood.

The patch of trees that Dody had been running in when he'd tossed his mother's necklace high into the air.

The patch that contained the very tree Frodo had fallen out of.

A different kind of chill seized Dody and he scanned the field between the river and the road.  Yes, there was a faint trail of bent grass leading off in a more or less straight line towards the forest.  Dody looked back but Drogo was already out of sight, calling frantically downstream.  Dody shivered and looked north again.  He could see nearly a mile along the near bank.  Frodo would not have walked further than that while he and Drogo slept, but…  He looked back at the wood.  But he could have crossed the field.  With a sudden, strange certainty, Dody knew that that was what Frodo had done.  He took a few steps and stopped, wondering if he should call to Drogo, but the old fear of discovery returned and kept him silent.  This was a part of his buried past and he could not yet bring himself to  speak of it.  Not even to Drogo.  He turned and dashed eastwards.

The signs were faint to start with and disappeared before Dody was halfway to the road.  He risked a few quiet calls along the way, to make certain he had not passed Frodo in the long grass, but they had not been answered.  He reached the road, puffing and wheezing and scanned the dirt beside the track for prints.  A little ways north of where he came out was a clear footprint.  A small child had crossed the road and the line of his progress disappeared into the grass on the other side.  Dody followed like a hound on the scent. 

Soon he came to the little path that he and Seredic, Marmadas, Darroc and Milo traveled that fateful morning a lifetime ago.  He scanned the landscape to get his bearings and turned south, not even looking for prints any more.  He knew where Frodo had gone.

The old oak stood just as it had that spring and Dody, remembering the image of Frodo lying so very pale and still below it, hesitated.  At first sight, Dody could see nothing, but a movement in the canopy drew his gaze upwards.  His quarry was there; looking lost and worried, and, unbelievably, perched in the tree, on one of its lowest branches.  Dody called out his name and though Frodo started, the relief on his face was clear.

"Dody!" he cried.  "I can't get down!  I just came to see and… and the stick was down there, and I climbed up it but it fell over and I couldn't do anything but climb up further!"  His words came in a rush, but the little boy seemed more annoyed than upset.  Dody jogged over, his initial fright becoming anger.

"What in blazes did you think you were doing running off like that!" he shouted.  "Do you realize you've frightened your father near to death?  And I'm done in from worry too!  What has possessed you, Frodo?!"

The little boy cringed and Dody immediately felt sorry he had shouted so.  "I don't know," he apologized.  "I woke and you both were asleep.  I'd got up without waking father and it was so pleasant to be on my own again for a little while, I had a notion to go exploring.  It's been so long since…."  He looked down and Dody could see his face coloring.  "When I looked out at this wood, I just felt I had to come here.  It wasn't far and I would hear father if he shouted."  Dody came to the trunk and looked up into the tree. 

"When I got here," Frodo continued, "there was that stick lying against the tree and it looked so familiar.  I knew I could use it to climb up and I did, but as I reached this branch, I heard father shout and it startled me so that I jumped and knocked it away."  He shrugged, sheepishly.  "And now I can't get down," he concluded.  "I tried answering, but he couldn't hear me, and then I couldn't hear him."

Dody nodded sternly.  "You can explain that all to Drogo, once I've got you down, and don't be surprised if you get a thrashing for what you've done.  He's worried sick.  But stay there a moment." 

The branch Frodo had used to climb on had indeed fallen away, but the distance from the ground to the one he sat on was not great.  Dody stood below it and held his arms up. 

"Just jump, Frodo.  I'll catch you," he said, but Frodo shook his head. 

"I can't!" 

"I won't drop you, I promise.  You can trust me."

The little boy's worried expression deepened.  "I can't, Dody.  Once I got up here, I got scared.  It's much higher than it looks from below.  My head is spinning again and I feel sick.  There is something about being high up.  I… I never used to be so afraid.  I can't jump.  I just can't.  Could you please come up and get me?"  The pallor and unspoken fear in Frodo's face stirred an answering guilt in Dody.  He was to blame for this.  He could not bury or forget his own deeds any more than he could those of his father.  He lowered his hands and looked up at Frodo.

"Can you move at all?" he asked gently.  "Give me room to climb up?"

"I…I'll try."  The boy closed his eyes for a moment and then carefully transferred his death grip on the low branch to one that was slightly higher and stood, backing up against the tree's trunk.  "Is that enough?" he asked, shakily.

"It will have to be," Dody answered, jumping and catching the low branch easily.  He swung his feet over the bough and worked his way straddle it.  A smile lit Frodo's face.

"You made it!  Oh, that was a neat trick, Dody.  I should like to learn that someday."

"Not today.  Now, can you come to me?"

"Um…"

"Never mind.  I'll come to you."  Dody pulled himself forward and when he was just beside the boy, Frodo suddenly let go his branch threw his arms around him. 

He was trembling.  Dody hadn't noticed it from below, but the boy was shaking like the bronze leaves that still covered the old oak tree.  Hesitantly, Dody stroked his back to reassure him.  Frodo was terrified but Dody knew better than any what good reason he had to be.  Coming here at all was a feat.  Any other would have avoided this place forever.  And yet Frodo had come back to this very tree and climbed into it, either out of innocence or courage, and faced his fear.  Dody stroked his dark head, both surprised and impressed.  He already respected the boy's courage, but this act endeared him.  What a brave, precious treasure of a hobbit this little one was!  The older boy murmured softly and spread wondering hands over the small back

"It's all right," he soothed.  "I've got you now.  You won't fall.  I will never let you fall again."  He held the little boy as his shivers eased and wondered which of them needed this comfort more.  Little Frodo had become dear to him, as dear as any living being, and he had grown to love Drogo and Primula too.  They had made their way deep into his selfish heart and worked a great change on him.  And yet, one vestige of his former life remained; a dark secret that festered and ate at him.  He had almost cost this child his life. 

He saw his former actions clearly now.  He was not entirely responsible for Frodo's fall, but he shared some of the blame for it.  He'd paid for his folly in blood and heartache, but it still pained him that he had once had more concern for keeping his involvement secret than he had for the tender life in his arms.  In the light of young Frodo's remarkable courage, his cowardice shamed him, but he knew what would make it right.  It was time to accept his due at last. 

"Frodo?" he said softly.  The boy eased his grip, apparently feeling safe enough to do so now and looked at Dody.

"Yes?"

"I've something to tell you."

Frodo blinked expectantly.

"I… I think I know why you fell out of this tree."

The boy's eyes widened.  "Was it this tree?  Oh, my…  It felt familiar."  His mouth gapped in surprise and he looked up into the crown above him.  "I still can't remember anything about it."

"Yes.  It was this tree.  I was here that day.  I had stolen something from my stepmother.  It was foolish and wrong, but I had done it anyway."  Dody felt a thrill of keen terror, as if he were about to step off a precipice, but plunged onwards.  "The older boys who were with me wanted to take it back, but I refused.  I… I ran, but couldn't get far."  He stopped and drew a deep breath.  "It was a necklace, a very special necklace, and I threw it up into this tree so that the other boys couldn't force me to return it."  He slumped, humbled.  "It went high and got caught on a branch way up in the top.  Near, I think, to where you were sitting."  He looked into Frodo's clear blue eyes.  They were riveted on him.  "I believe you tried to reach it, Frodo, and that you were trying to get it when you fell.  I found it there afterwards." 

He drew a deep breath and looked away.  "I am to blame for your fall, Frodo.  Because of my spite and stubbornness.  It was my fault."  Then he closed his eyes and felt the shame and weariness flow out into his limbs.  The feeling frightened him, but made him feel curiously lighter, almost euphoric, as if a great weight he had not been aware of had lifted.  It still hung over his head, waiting to crush him beneath it, but the secret was at last in the open.

"Oh!" breathed Frodo.  The boy looked around himself again, at the ground below and the brown, leafy canopy above, then back to the slumped figure before him.  "Well," he said, and paused as if unsure what to do next.  He frowned.  "Well, you're sorry, aren't you?"

Dody shuddered and turned again to look at him. 

"Yes!" he said in a bare whisper.  "I am sorrier than you will ever know.  I almost killed you, Frodo!  And you and your family have been better to me than I ever deserved.  Oh, yes!  I am so very sorry."

The wind picked up, rattling the dry leaves above them as Dody bowed his head.  His eyes closed and he sat, still as a stone, as if awaiting judgment.  Frodo fidgeted uncomfortably. 

"Dody?" he asked pointedly.  "I want to get down.  Father is calling and you said he was worried.  But I need your help.  I am sorry you feel so bad, but it's really all right.  I didn't die and now I'm hungry.  Would it help if I said I forgive you?"

Dody looked up, slowly. 

"You said you're sorry, so I forgive you."  Frodo said.  "I'm all better now and there's no real harm done."  He smiled hopefully, obviously more interested in possible lunch and normalizing relations than matters of fate and justice.  Dody stared at him, confusion and disbelief vying for control of his emotions.

Nothing more extraordinary than a little hobbit boy stared back at him, and yet Dody felt hope stir within him. 

"You forgive me?" he asked.

"Of course!" answered Frodo.  "You didn't mean to hurt me."

Dody let out a breath.  "No, I didn't," he murmured.  "I was so much different then, but no.  I didn't mean to hurt you.  Not even then." 

"See?  Everything's all right!'

Dody blinked and with sudden astonishment, realized the weight that had hung over him was gone, evaporating as if it had never been.  Relief filled his mind and with it came a keen and overwhelming sense of love.  Could it truly be that simple?  Could such plain words fix so much heartache?  Dody focused on the young face before him.  Frodo looked a little concerned, a little embarrassed and a little impatient, but quite earnest.  He understood what Dody had done and still forgave him.  This boy was a treasure, indeed!  There were others, also hurt by his wrong, to whom would need to atone, and though he doubted they would forgive as easily, he no longer feared to meet their justice.  The one he had harmed worst had forgiven him and he felt like a prisoner just released from the darkest dungeon. 

Taken with sudden emotion, Dody pulled Frodo into his arms and held him tight until Frodo began wriggling in protest.  Dody stifled a laugh.  Treasure or not, Frodo was still a little boy who probably thought he was too big to be hugged and that saying 'I'm sorry' fixed everything.  Dody hugged him closer. 

Forgiveness.  Dody could not suppress the smile that stretched across his face.  It was a simple thing, but from it, Dody felt a surge of sudden love so bright and pure, that if Frodo had asked, he might have knelt before him and sworn fealty.  It seemed as if no one had ever gifted Dody with such an astonishing gift, nor shone so brightly in his eyes.  He felt he held the best hobbit in the Shire in his arms and wanted to sing his praises to the sky.  And yet, who else would ever know how special this little one was?  Even Frodo would not understand that he had done anything miraculous.  Dody hesitated then and eased his grip on the child.  Frodo was scowling at him, but not angrily, and looked as if he did not quite know what to make of his mercurial cousin, not that that was an unusual occurrence. 

No, Frodo would not understand, nor was Dody entirely sure why the child endeared him so, but looking back on everything Frodo had done that summer and everything Dody had so admired him for, he thought he knew.  Other than surviving the fall itself, Frodo had simply done what was right.  At every point, and without fear or guile, he had acted as love and goodness demanded.  From great lords and kings, one could expect such nobility and courage, but from a little boy, present and keenly mortal, such was dear and precious.  And, Dody further realized, if such courage and nobility of spirit could come from a child, then how could he not expect it of himself? 

That was the thought that heartened him.  Frodo's humble example had inspired his own courage and summoned him to do what was right.  A season overdue, perhaps, but it had come.

He wiped his eyes.

"Thank you," he said earnestly.  "I could hold that secret no longer.  I give it to you, Frodo Baggins, to do with as you will.  Keep it for me, or do whatever you wish with it.  I entrust it to you." 

Frodo cocked an eyebrow at him as if he thought Dody was losing his senses. 

"Very well.  Can we get down now?" 

Dody laughed out loud and embraced Frodo again.  "Your wish, my lord, is my command!" he shouted and swung his leg over the branch.  Frodo, seeing that the older boy was planning on jumping, clung to him frantically and buried his face in his neck.  Dody laughed again and leapt to the ground.

"DROGO!!!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.  Frodo slapped his hands over his ears, and scowled at his cousin again.  The call rang out across the forest and into the fields beyond, joyful and beckoning.  No one hearing that cry could mistake its meaning.  Frodo had been found, and he was blessedly whole. 

Dody put the boy down and bowed low before him.  Frodo rolled his eyes. 

"What has got into you?" he asked in mock disgust. 

Dody merely grinned back at him.  "You will probably never know," he said.  "But you've done me a great service, Frodo.  I will always remember it.  I promise."  His brown eyes sparkled and he knelt on one knee.  "Would my lord like a ride on my shoulders back to his father?  I think he would be greatly relieved to see you."

Frodo stiffened and the shadow of fear crossed his face.  It was the height, Dody, remembered.

"I will never let you fall again, Frodo.  You are my kin and dear to me and I would never see you come to harm.  Trust me."  He held his hand out and Frodo pondered the offer for a moment. 

"I could try, I guess," the boy mused.  "You're not as high up as that tree was and I climbed that."  Dody bent his head and Frodo clambered reluctantly up.  Rising, Dody clamped the small legs tight to his chest and started off at a brisk pace.  Frodo gave a small yelp and wrapped his arms around his cousin's forehead, but after they came out of the trees and he could see his father waving frantically from the river and running towards them, he laughed in delight and forgot his fear.  Dody's heart swelled, enchanted by the sound.

It had indeed been an astonishing summer, full of revelations and heartbreaks, but in the end, Dody felt as if he had emerged from deep water, washed clean of every taint.  Nothing remained of his old self.  He had a new life and a future.  Only one remnant of the past remained.

Forgiveness. 

His wasn't as simple a task as Frodo's had been.  Nor did he imagine his father would respond with joy and love as he had.  There were thick, old scars between them than could not be healed with 'I forgive you' no matter how earnestly it was said.  Forgetting still seemed the easiest, most painless path, but it no longer seemed the right one.  Dody could see that Drogo had been right and that the day would come for him to face Dodinas.  One day, but not today.  He needed to grow and come to really know his own worth before he would have the courage for that meeting.  He squeezed the child's legs fondly.  When the time came, the lesson that rode gleefully on his shoulders would not be forgotten.  As a very special child had shown, the strength to do what was right was within him, if he had the courage to call it. 

The End