SUMMARY: “Anchored” is a continuation of “Adrift,” but each part can be read on its own. This part covers the period from when Frodo moves to Hobbiton in 1391 to the Long Expected Party in 1401. My aim is to explore how I imagine Frodo’s youth might have been, and what influences might have shaped him into the adult hobbit we all know and love.

A note about age: Some people use the 2/3 rule to figure out how old hobbits should act/appear, i.e. a 30-year-old hobbit would appear about 20 to us humans. I, however, use a nonlinear conversion that I won’t bore you with here, except to say that young hobbits will seem about half their age, but it will approach (and pass) 2/3 as they get older.

Hobbit’s age human equivalent

4. . . . . . . . 2

12. . . . . . . . 6

22 . . . . . . . .11

33 . . . . . . . .18

51 . . . . . . . .30

90 . . . . . . . .64

111 . . . . . . .87

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Lord of the Rings or any of its characters, all of which were created by J.R.R. Tolkien. I do not profit financially from this story; I’m writing it purely as an act of admiration for Tolkien’s work.

The Making of a Ringbearer: Anchored

By Obelia medusa

1. The Troll Under the Bed

December 2, 1391

It was mid-afternoon when the travellers finally reached Hobbiton. The journey from Buckland was normally three days on foot, but with a wagon and pony it was scarcely a day and a half. Frodo had already enjoyed the trip tremendously; here he was, travelling with his adventurous Uncle Bilbo as he’d always dreamed. They had camped in the woods the night before, and Bilbo had entertained Frodo and Hamson, a local lad hired to drive the pony, with tales of his adventures.

Frodo could not help wishing the journey would go on a little longer. He was becoming nervous now that they were so close; he was not at all certain he would like his new home. He had come to know Bilbo well in the years since the river had claimed his parents; the old hobbit had taken a special interest in him over his many visits to Brandy Hall, and Frodo, so often lonely and ignored, had delighted in the attention, in spite of the Bucklander relatives who didn’t quite approve of Bilbo’s ways. Frodo didn’t care; he thought it was marvellous that Bilbo went on adventures and did interesting things. There was no hobbit he admired more, in fact.

When the adoption had been suggested, those whose opinions mattered were delighted. As for those who were not delighted, their opinions did not matter, so it was of little consequence. But how would things be, now that Frodo was to live with Bilbo? Frodo did not consider himself a very interesting person to have around; and he had seemed forever to get into trouble at Brandy Hall. Would Bilbo weary of his company after a few weeks? Would he get into trouble in his new home too, and cause Bilbo grief?

Aside from his new guardian, Frodo was uneasy at leaving the only home he had ever known. He told himself that this was an adventure, and he must face it bravely, like Uncle Bilbo would. Frodo knew he had been to Bag End before, when he was very young, but he could not recall it clearly. He had been told that it was a very fine smial, large and richly furnished. Frodo had never imagined he would miss the extensive warren that was Brandy Hall, where a small hobbit lad could get lost in the shuffle at every turn, and yet the familiarity was suddenly comforting.

And then, of course, Frodo already missed his little cousin Merry. How could he expect to find any new friends as dear as Merry?

“We’re nearly there, my lad,” Bilbo said quietly, interrupting Frodo’s musings. “You can already see the smoke rising from the chimney.”

Forgetting his melancholy for the moment, the twenty-three-year-old hobbit sat up straighter on the wagon seat, eager for a glimpse of this place.

Hamson glanced sidelong at Frodo and said, “That’ll be my Gaffer, Mr. Frodo, warmin’ up the place for your arrival.” The older tweenager turned his eyes back to the road and urged the pony forward.

“Ah, dear Hamfast,” Bilbo said with a chuckle. “I told him we’d be back today.”

And just like that, they were rolling smoothly up the lane, past a row of small neat smials set low in the hill (“Bagshot Row,” Hamson announced proudly as they passed), and pulling up in front of a bright green door near the top of the hill.

Hamson halted the pony and jumped down from the wagon just as that startling green door swung open. A plainly-dressed, middle-aged hobbit stepped out, nodding at Bilbo. By the close resemblance to Hamson, Frodo knew that this must be his father, Hamfast.

“Welcome back, Master Bilbo,” Hamfast said gruffly, although he did in fact look quite pleased to see Bilbo. “I’ve got the place ready for ye, and the young master.”

“Thank you indeed, Master Hamfast!” Bilbo exclaimed, then glanced at Frodo with a twinkle in his eye. “And may I present to you my heir, Frodo Baggins!”

Frodo grinned at this reminder of his new connection with Bilbo, but got to his feet and bowed politely as he had been taught. Now that he was standing, he realized how high up he was off the ground. How was he to get down?

“At your service, Mr. Frodo,” the Gaffer muttered. Then, seeming to realize the lad’s predicament, he stepped forward and lifted Frodo off the wagon, setting him neatly on the lightly-frosted ground.

“Thank you, sir,” Frodo said. Hamfast merely nodded in reply, and directed his son to unload the belongings heaped in the back of the wagon. Frodo was a little intimidated by the Gaffer’s gruff manner; had he already done something to offend Bilbo’s gardener?

While Hamson set to work, the other three went inside. Bilbo was speaking with Hamfast, but Frodo was too busy looking to listen. The floor was dark, richly polished wood, and the rounded walls, neatly plastered and painted an earthy green, rose and met several feet above Frodo’s head, to make the ceiling. They were standing in the foyer, and he could see the long, tubular central hallway burrowing off into the hillside. The hall was lit at intervals with intricately carved candle sconces mounted on the walls. The wainscoting looked old but well cared for, interrupted every so often by a door on one side or the other, and thick oaken beams curved overhead, supporting the tons of earth that comprised the top of the Hill.

Bilbo saw him looking, and came back to put a firm hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “Come along, Frodo-lad,” he said. “I must give you a tour of your new home, since I doubt you remember your last visit!” Frodo nodded eagerly, and Bilbo looked at Hamfast. “I’d like it if you and your boy stayed to supper, Master Hamfast,” he said, with a questioning note in his voice.

“Thank ‘ee, sir. I’ll go build up the fire in the kitchen, after I help Hamson,” Hamfast replied. “My youngest lad is about somewhere, too. I sent him to bring in more kindling from the wood shed.”

“Excellent!” Bilbo exclaimed. “I’m sure Frodo will be glad to meet him.”

Hamfast went back outside and Bilbo steered Frodo to the second doorway at the right.

“The first leads to the best parlour, my boy,” the old hobbit said. “I don’t use it much these days, though it does come in handy for entertaining, as does this room!” The door revealed a large dining-room, with a long table in the centre and seats enough for twenty hobbits. A huge fireplace towered in the corner, and Frodo could instantly imagine the fancy dinner-parties that must have been held here, in years gone by.

Next came the kitchen. This was a bright, cheery place with its own set of chairs and a table, all much plainer than those in the dining-room. There was also a more modest cooking fireplace in the kitchen, in which a small fire had been recently built. This room was far smaller than the kitchen Frodo was used to at Brandy Hall, but pots and pans hung from hooks all over the walls, and the gleaming countertops looked well-used.

“Those are two of the pantries,” Bilbo said, motioning to more doors. “And here...” they passed through another door “... is my favourite sitting-room.”

Frodo liked this room immediately. It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the dining-room; it was small and cosy, and more than a bit messy. A well-worn couch and two armchairs faced a brick fireplace, over which were hanging two small framed portraits. Bilbo’s parents, Frodo guessed.

They proceeded down a hallway decorated with tapestries and old Baggins family portraits. They passed Bilbo’s extremely cluttered study, a large bathroom, and the library, which Frodo looked forward to exploring, and Bilbo’s bedroom, and innumerable guest rooms, before Bilbo paused in front of another round door.

“And what is this room, Uncle?” Frodo asked.

“This, my dear boy...” Bilbo pushed the door open “... is your room.”

Frodo grinned and stepped inside. He walked all around in a circle, trying to take in every detail. It was not an overly large room, but it was bigger than what he’d had at Brandy Hall. And this was all his! Frodo couldn’t remember ever having a room to himself. It had the air of a place long unused but recently given a good airing out.

The colours of the room were soothing greens and browns. There was a large, soft rug on the polished wood floor, and dark green drapes hung at the round window. The furniture was all of the same dark, rich wood, and it looked nearly as expensive as the fine furnishings of Brandy Hall’s best parlour.

He looked back at Bilbo and was surprised to see the old hobbit watching him almost... anxiously?

“Do you like it, lad?” Bilbo asked finally. “I lived in this room when I was a child.”

Frodo gave him a fierce hug. “It’s perfect, Uncle Bilbo,” he said firmly.

Bilbo laughed in delight and ruffled Frodo’s dark curls. “Well, then!” the old hobbit exclaimed. “I’ll leave you to get acquainted while I go and see about getting supper started. Can you find your way back to the kitchen, Frodo-lad?”

“I think so,” Frodo replied cheerfully. “I’d like to try, anyway.”

“Very well,” Bilbo said, his warm brown eyes twinkling. “But if you don’t appear within the next half hour, I shall be forced to send a search party to find you.”

After Bilbo had gone, Frodo resumed his inspection of the room. There was a fireplace in the corner, and a fire was crackling on the hearth, making the room seem cheerful and cozy. There was a bureau for his clothes, as well as a cupboard. Frodo opened the cupboard door and frowned. He certainly didn’t have enough clothes to fill such a space! No matter. It would make an excellent cave, for the next time he felt like playing Dwarf King.

Next, Frodo examined the desk. His desk. It had a fancy green top and looked just like a child-sized version of the large desk in Bilbo’s study. A tall bookcase stood beside it, and Frodo was delighted to finally have a place to arrange his small but ever-growing collection of books, which he had always kept under his bed at Brandy Hall.

Frodo turned to examine the bed. It was certainly larger than any he’d ever slept in, and it was covered with a chequered blue-and-green quilt. It looked to be freshly made-up with crisp white linens. Wondering if it was as soft as it looked, Frodo approached, preparing to sit down. Just then a flash of movement near the floor caught his eye. Was he imagining things, or had he just seen a small brown hand whisk itself quickly out of sight? A brief glance at the space under the bed, not quite hidden by the edge of the quilt, confirmed his suspicions; an arm rested on the floor.

It was a lucky thing he hadn’t flopped down on the bed as originally planned; he might have given the small fellow quite a scare. Frodo frowned. He guessed (correctly, as it happened) that the intruder was frightened of him already. Perhaps Frodo could show that he didn’t bite, and coax his shy guest to come out? He considered how he would deal with his little cousin Merry in such a situation, and a plan rapidly took shape in his mind.

Frodo turned round again and yawned elaborately. “Oh! I’m so tired!” Frodo exclaimed. “I think I’ll lie down on this fine bed!”

A muffled gasp was heard from beneath the bed, and Frodo suppressed a giggle. Continuing the game, he took another step back toward the bed, and then gave a startled yelp. “But wait!” he cried. “There’s someone under the bed! Who could it be?”

The bed remained silent.

“Hmm. Perhaps I’ll have a guess, then,” Frodo said. “Is it... Hamfast Gamgee?”

This time the silence was broken by an incredulous snicker.

Encouraged by this evidence that his visitor was enjoying the game, Frodo continued, “no, perhaps not. I can’t imagine why Hamfast Gamgee would be hiding under my bed; he has plenty to keep him occupied elsewhere. I’ll have to guess again. Could it be... Mayor Whitfoot?”

A muffled giggle escaped from the bed.

“No, the Mayor is a very busy hobbit. He’d scarcely have time to pop under my bed, would he?” said Frodo. “Aha! I’ve got it. It must be... an Elf!”

The bed gasped in delight, and Frodo smiled.

“On the other hand, one of the Fair Folk would hardly find himself in such an undignified position, would he? And besides, he would be too big by far, to fit in such a small space.”

The bed waited silently.

Frodo turned again to face the bed, trying to suppress a smile. “Well, I’m afraid only one possibility remains,” the tweenager said, keeping his eyes on the gap under the bed. “And so I know it has to be... a Cave Troll.”

The bed snorted loudly and dissolved into helpless giggles.

“Come on out, Mr. Troll!” Frodo exclaimed.

After some delicate manoeuvring, the Cave Troll emerged from beneath Frodo’s bed and stood upright, looking startlingly like a small, well-rumpled hobbit lad, with honey-coloured curls and honest brown eyes. He looked a little older than Merry, perhaps eleven or twelve years old; he had a round, cheerful face, and he was still struggling to contain his mirth.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I reckon I’m not nearly big enough to be a Troll!” the wide-eyed lad exclaimed, finally catching his breath.

“Well then, it seems I was mistaken after all,” Frodo said. “It is only a hobbit lad, like myself.” He crouched down to the smaller boy’s level, and blue eyes met brown.

“Samwise Gamgee at your service, sir,” the younger lad said, suddenly recalling his manners.

“Frodo Baggins, at yours and your family’s,” Frodo replied, extending his hand.

Samwise shook it shyly, and then Frodo straightened up. “Now then!” he said. “I believe my uncle said something about an early supper. You Trolls must get hungry, hiding under beds all day. Will you come with me?”

“Aye, I will, Mr. Frodo!” Samwise exclaimed, slipping his hand into the older lad’s.

Several hours later, in Number 3, Bagshot Row, six children were preparing for bed and two adults were talking out in the kitchen.

“Aye, he seems like a nice enough lad,” Hamfast agreed. “But he is from Buckland, and them Bucklanders are a queer lot, they say.”

“Well, mind you don’t go talking about Buckland folk and their odd ways in front of the children, Ham,” Bell said, reaching up to extinguish the lamp that burned in the little kitchen. “Like it or not, Mr. Frodo is our master’s heir, and he must be treated as such.”

“I reckon you’re right, Bell-lass,” Hamfast sighed. “And at least he’ll get a proper upbringing here in Hobbiton. Aye, he may yet turn out all right.”

“Oh, nonsense, Ham,” Bell replied. “Since when have you paid any mind to what folks say? Anyway, Hamson seemed to like him all right. And little Sam is quite fond of the boy already.”

“That’s a fine thing, then,” Hamfast nodded, “since our Sam will one day take over for me, I daresay, when I retire.”

Bell laughed. “Did Sam tell ye how he came to meet the young master?”

“Nay,” the Gaffer said, turning to look curiously at his wife.

“Well, after he brought in the kindling you’d asked for, he thought he’d have himself a look in Mr. Frodo’s room,” Bell said, shaking her head at her son’s lack of propriety. “As Sam tells it, Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo came along while he was still inside, so he hid ‘imself under the bed!”

Hamfast choked on the cup of tea he had been sipping.

“Now, now,” Bell said hastily. “Don’t go gettin’ yourself upset. There was no harm done. Little Sam said that Mr. Frodo found him, but he wasn’t upset at all and treated our boy with uncommon kindness.”

Hamfast couldn’t help chuckling at the imagined scene. “All the same, Bell, I’ll have to have a talk with Sam,” he said. “If he’s going to start helpin’ me in Mr. Bilbo’s garden this year, he’ll have to mind ‘is manners better’n that.”

Bell merely laughed and went to tuck in the children, while Hamfast made ready for bed.

Up the Hill in Bag End, another child was being tucked into bed. Frodo yawned and closed his eyes. Bilbo shut the book he’d been reading from and smiled at his young cousin.

“I think that’s enough for tonight, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo said.

“Thank you for reading to me, Uncle Bilbo.” Frodo opened his eyes again.

Bilbo reached out hesitantly and smoothed a dark lock of hair away from Frodo’s face, then pulled the covers up to Frodo’s chin.

“Sleep well, dear boy,” Bilbo said, placing a kiss on Frodo’s forehead. He laid the book down on the bureau and left the dark room, closing the door softly behind him.

Frodo smiled in the darkness. This adventure was starting out better than he could have imagined.

2. A Seed Is Planted

Over the next two weeks, Frodo settled comfortably into his new routine at Bag End. He loved the peace that pervaded the large smial; he had always imagined it would be pleasant to be alone sometimes, but the reality of not being constantly surrounded by others far surpassed his expectations.

Frodo spent his mornings having lessons with Bilbo and his afternoons exploring or building snow-hobbits with little Samwise Gamgee, while Bilbo worked in his study. In the evenings, they often sat comfortably by the sitting-room fire and read to each other from Bilbo’s enormous collection of books.

For his part, Samwise had been thrilled the first time Frodo invited him to play. Hamfast and Bell Gamgee were a little startled to discover that Frodo considered their son a worthy playmate, but to be so singled out by a young gentlehobbit was an honour and Sam’s parents had readily consented. Poor Sam’s ears had been ringing that first time he went up to Bag End, after Hamfast got through lecturing him on how he must behave in the young master’s company.

It was an unusually cold winter that year, and an inch or two of snow was not as rare an occurrence as it generally was in the Shire. The older Gamgee lads were away from home quite often, earning extra money by shovelling snow off walkways and the like. But Frodo was quite content with Sam’s company. The gardener’s youngest son had a calm, undemanding air about him that Frodo found very comforting. Bilbo assured him that there were plenty of lads his age in Hobbiton and Frodo would meet them all over time, but for now Frodo was satisfied.

Bilbo was overseeing Frodo’s education now, and his lessons were anything but tedious; Frodo found himself keenly interested in school work for the first time. In addition to improving his Westron and Elvish, Frodo was now studying the varied histories of the peoples of Middle Earth. Few hobbits knew anything of Dwarves, Men, or Elves, but Bilbo Baggins was a very unusual hobbit, and he enjoyed passing his knowledge on to an eager young pupil.

On this particular afternoon, which happened to be December 15th, Frodo found himself alone at Bag End. Bilbo had rushed off to the village to see about decorations, for they were to begin preparations for Yule that very evening. Frodo grinned to himself as he finished drying and putting away the last of the luncheon dishes. This would be his first Yule at Bag End, and it was sure to be a good one. Not only would he be spending it with Bilbo, but he would see Merry again! Bilbo had invited Saradoc and Esmeralda to bring Merry for a visit on the third day of Yule, December 27th. The first two days were traditionally spent only with immediate family, but most hobbits spent the rest of the winter holidays visiting friends and relations.

Paladin and Eglantine Took of the Great Smials would also be coming, along with their daughters and new son. Frodo did not know any of his Took cousins very well, but he was looking forward to getting better acquainted.

After putting away the last spoon, Frodo dried his hands and went into the sitting-room. His book lay open on his favourite armchair, and the fire in the hearth was very attractive on this wintry day. Frodo picked up his book and curled up in the chair, ready for more dragon stories.

Frodo was just becoming immersed in Chapter Three when he was interrupted by a loud knock at the front door. He had been so engrossed that it took him a moment to place the sound. He quickly closed his book and hopped down from the armchair.

The knock sounded again just as he stepped into the foyer. Frodo pulled open the heavy green door and said, “May I help you?” He didn’t recognize the callers. They were a middle-aged couple, perhaps in their early eighties.

“So it’s true!” exclaimed the lady. “The sneaky old scoundrel has found himself another heir!”

Frodo stepped back in surprise at her unpleasant tone, and the two visitors pushed past him rudely.

“Where is he?” cried the lady’s husband. “We must speak with him!”

“If you mean Uncle Bilbo, he’s out at present,” said Frodo, finding his voice finally. “Can I give him a message?”

“You can tell him Lobelia and Otho Sackville-Baggins have been to call on him,” Lobelia said haughtily. She was in the dining-room now, opening a drawer and rifling through the good silver.

“Er... is there something I can help you with?” Frodo was becoming alarmed by Lobelia’s behaviour, but he could hardly tell a grown hobbit to drop the silver and leave. Unfortunately, he had drawn Lobelia’s attention back to himself, and she turned her beady gaze on him.

“You!” she exclaimed furiously. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, trouble-making brat from Buckland of all places! How the old coot could have made you his heir is beyond me! I’ll make him see sense, you can count on that!”

Frodo was too shocked to reply, which suited Lobelia just fine. She bent down and grabbed Frodo by the upper arms, putting her scowling face right up close to his. “You listen to me, boy,” she said angrily. “That fortune is ours by rights, and as soon as Bilbo discovers how much trouble you are, he’ll ship you straight back to your... Buckland relations!” She said ‘Buckland’ as though it left a bad taste in her mouth.

Frodo could only stare at her dumbly; he was accustomed to being ignored and occasionally snapped at by the adults in Brandy Hall, but never before had he been spoken to in this fashion.

“Come along, Lobelia,” Otho said impatiently. “Bilbo will tire of the boy soon enough, and then our Lotho will have his proper place back again.”

Lobelia released Frodo’s arms with an angry shake and flounced out the door after her husband. Frodo rubbed his sore arms and distantly noted that he’d seen at least three silver spoons poking out of Lobelia’s handbag. Frodo closed the front door and returned to his favourite armchair. He did not pick up his book again, but sat staring into the fire, stunned both by those dreadful people and what they had said to him.

Would Uncle Bilbo eventually tire of him? Would he wish he had never adopted Frodo in the first place? What a dreadful thought. Frodo moved over to the worn green couch and pulled the blanket draped over the back tightly around himself. He lay listening to the crackling of the fire, and eventually his trembling eased. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. He would just have to make sure he never caused Bilbo any trouble, that was all there was to it. True, he had been ambivalent about leaving Brandy Hall at first, but Frodo had come to love his new home, and guardian. He desperately did not want to be sent back to Buckland.

Bilbo marched up the path to Bag End, his arms laden with prickly green boughs of cedar and mistletoe. Juggling his load, he opened the front door and shrugged awkwardly out of his cloak.

“Frodo-lad!” Bilbo called. “I’m back!”

There was no answer, so Bilbo headed for the sitting-room, dropping his decorations on the kitchen table as he passed. “Frodo!” he called again, just as he came to the doorway of the sitting-room. A tousled dark head appeared abruptly over the back of the couch.

“Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo said dazedly.

“Were you asleep?” Bilbo asked, coming to sit beside him.

“I was for a bit,” Frodo replied. Bilbo frowned. Frodo’s voice sounded oddly strained.

“Is everything all right, lad?” Bilbo asked finally.

“Yes,” Frodo said quickly. And then, after a brief hesitation, “You had some visitors.”

“Oh! Who was it, my boy?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Sackville-Baggins”

“Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed again, but in a completely different tone of voice this time. “Then I am very sorry indeed. I did not expect the S.-B.’s to call so soon, not at all. I hope they didn’t upset you, Frodo?” Bilbo was alarmed. No twenty-three-year-old child should have to cope with Lobelia and Otho, but especially not Frodo; Bilbo was fully aware of how angry the S.-B.’s would be that he had cut them out of a large inheritance. He certainly hadn’t told them about adopting Frodo, but he had known it would be only a matter of time before they found out.

“No, Uncle,” Frodo said, but he sounded even more strained now. “But I think Mrs. Sackville-Baggins took some of your spoons.”

Bilbo let out his breath in a relieved chuckle. “Is that what’s worrying you, dear boy?” the old hobbit said, thankful it was nothing worse. “Well, don’t think on it another moment. Lobelia has many unpleasant habits, not the least of which is pocketing things that don’t belong to her,” Bilbo said grimly. “But worry not, lad! She won’t be getting much more than a few spoons, not if I can help it.”

The following morning, Frodo felt a little better when he woke up. Bilbo had shown no signs that he was getting tired of Frodo’s company yet, and Frodo was awake earlier than usual. He had an idea for how to show his uncle that he could make himself useful.

Bilbo wasn’t up yet, and if Frodo hurried, he could make breakfast himself. Frodo knew he could not afford to experiment in the kitchen; he would stick with what he knew. He dragged a small stool over to the stove and fried up some sausages and eggs. Then he sliced up some bread to toast. Miss Poppy at Brandy Hall had taught him a great deal about cooking, and Frodo put her lessons to good use.

Just as he was finishing, Bilbo walked into the kitchen.

“Frodo!” the old hobbit exclaimed. “Are you cooking breakfast?”

“Yes, Uncle,” he answered. “It’s all ready.”

Bilbo sat at the kitchen table and looked on with amazement as Frodo brought out the serving dishes.

“It all looks wonderful, dear boy, but you didn’t have to do this!” Bilbo said.

“I wanted to, Uncle,” Frodo replied, sitting down opposite Bilbo.

“You were up rather late last night,” said Bilbo, sounding concerned, as they began helping themselves to breakfast. “I was going to let you sleep a little longer.”

“I wasn’t tired,” Frodo shrugged. In truth, he hadn’t slept very well at all, but Bilbo wasn’t to know that.

Frodo finished his first five sausages and turned his attention to the egg. Uncle Bilbo had just taken a bite of his egg, and the oddest expression had come over his face. But Bilbo swallowed quickly and picked up a sausage. “Delicious,” Bilbo murmured. “I didn’t know you could cook, lad.”

“I’m glad you think so, Uncle,” Frodo replied, delighted by the praise. He then took a bite of his own egg, and nearly gagged. He had used far too much salt! The thing wasn’t even edible. “Oh! I’m so sorry, Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo cried, stricken.

“Don’t be silly, dear boy!” Bilbo said. “It’s the effort I appreciate, not the end result! And besides, the sausages were excellent.”

Frodo looked suspiciously at his cousin, but Bilbo merely gazed back at him with twinkling brown eyes, his mouth twitching slightly. Frodo knew Bilbo was trying not to laugh, and finally he relaxed. Bilbo stood up with a chuckle.

“Well, my boy, since you did the cooking, why don’t I clean up?” Bilbo said. “Then we can start our Yule baking.”

Frodo nodded reluctantly. It was going to be harder even than he’d expected to show Bilbo that he wouldn’t be any trouble to have around.

3. A Gamgee Interlude

The week before Yule proceeded smoothly. Bag End was now mostly decorated with cedar, mistletoe, holly, and bright red ribbons, and its two occupants turned their full attention to the baking. Every day now the musty old halls were filled with the delicious aroma of baking bread and pastries, candies and cookies, and Frodo soon forgot his anxieties about Bilbo in the whirlwind of activity. The old hobbit needed a great deal of help preparing for the arrival of all their guests, and he kept his young ward too busy to worry about much of anything at all.

The last few days before Yule fairly flew by, marked only by several notable events. For one thing, Frodo, while looking for the flour pantry, mistakenly went into the wine cellar and was delighted to discover that the cramped room made an even better Dwarf-mine than his clothes cupboard did. He’d shown the place to Samwise that very afternoon, and they had passed several happy hours playing in there.

Frodo and Samwise were rapidly becoming good friends. Frodo had to work constantly to overcome Sam’s shyness at having a gentlehobbit for a playmate, but it was well worth the effort. Sam had an active imagination and was an eager participant in Frodo’s imaginary adventures; indeed, he was a little older than Merry and better equipped to actively contribute to their games, much to Frodo’s delight.

Another incident that week that stood out in Frodo’s mind was his first visit to Number 3, Bagshot Row: the Gamgees’ hole. It was an event that Frodo would recall years later, with a twinkle of amusement, as one of the most bewildering encounters of his early days at Bag End.

Bilbo and Frodo were preparing to make ginger cookies that afternoon, and Bilbo discovered they were short of sugar.

“Run down to the Gamgees’ and borrow half a pound of sugar, would you, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo said distractedly.

“Of course, Uncle,” Frodo said immediately, and slid off the stool where he had been perched, rolling out dough all morning. He put on his heavy brown winter cloak and went outside. It hadn’t snowed in over a week, but there was a good inch of snow still on the ground, thanks to the uncommonly low temperatures. Frodo patted the head of his snow-hobbit as he passed, happy to note that the sculpture had hardly melted at all since yesterday.

The path down the hill had been cleared days ago, but Frodo preferred to walk alongside, in the crispy layer of snow, for he enjoyed the crunching under his feet.

Soon he was at Bagshot Row. Frodo quickly spotted Number 3. He marched up to the round yellow door and raised his hand to knock, hesitating briefly. He had the distinct impression that the Gaffer didn’t quite approve of him, although certainly none of the Gamgees had yet shown him anything but kindness. He hadn’t met Sam’s second-eldest brother, Halfred, yet, or any of his sisters, and Frodo’s natural curiosity made him eager to see more of his friend’s family.

Frodo finally knocked on the door and waited. He heard noises within, and feminine voices, and then the door was opening. Frodo was surprised to see a lass a few years younger than him standing on the threshold. This must be Daisy, Sam’s eldest sister. Frodo didn’t have much experience with girls, none of his female cousins at Brandy Hall being close to him in age, and he felt suddenly shy, especially with the way Daisy was staring at him.

“Er... how do you do?” he said finally. “I’m Frodo Baggins and my uncle sent me to borrow some sugar.”

Daisy blinked her wide brown eyes, smiled slowly, and giggled.

Frodo was feeling quite uncomfortable now, and he shifted from one foot to the other. Why did lasses have to behave so oddly? He frowned in consternation and tried again.

“Are you Daisy Gamgee?” he inquired politely.

Daisy nodded at him and giggled again. She was still standing in the doorway and made no move to invite Frodo inside. The unfortunate lad had reached the end of his rope, but he was rescued by another voice from inside the smial.

“Daisy-lass!” called a lady’s voice. “Who’s that at the door?”

Daisy finally turned her unnerving gaze away from Frodo and looked back inside. “It’s Mr. Frodo at the door, Mum!” she cried.

“Well, invite him in then, you silly girl!”

Daisy turned back to Frodo and giggled again. Frodo blinked in bewilderment.

“Won’t you come in, Mr. Frodo?” Daisy said then. She stepped back from the door, keeping her glassy-eyed stare fixed on Frodo. Frodo followed her inside, blushing furiously, and found himself in a warm kitchen. Two more lasses, perhaps fifteen and eight years old, were sitting at the scrubbed wooden table peeling potatoes, and a lady was standing by the stove, stirring an enormous pot.

“Well, good afternoon to ye, Mr. Frodo!” the lady exclaimed cheerfully. “I’m Bell Gamgee, and these are May and little Marigold,” she gestured to the girls at the table. “I’m afraid the lads are all out helping their dad this afternoon.” All four Gamgee females had honey-coloured hair and brown eyes, like Sam. Marigold went on rolling potatoes enthusiastically over to her sister for peeling, but May looked up and smiled shyly at Frodo.

“That’s all right, Mrs. Gamgee,” Frodo replied, relieved to have someone sensible to talk to. “Uncle Bilbo just sent me down to ask if we could borrow a half-pound of sugar from you.”

“Why, of course, Mr. Frodo!” Mrs. Gamgee said. “Daisy-lass, get your head out of the clouds and fetch that bag we opened yesterday.”

Daisy darted into the pantry and reappeared a moment later with a half-full one-pound sack of sugar, which she handed to Frodo with a brilliant smile. Frodo thanked Mrs. Gamgee and quickly made his escape. When he was safely outside in the snow again, he heard female voices break out into chatter again, through the closed door.

“Isn’t he handsome, Mum?” cried Daisy’s voice, followed by a chorus of giggles. Frodo wondered if the snow was deep enough that he could bury himself and not reappear until spring. He turned quickly to go, afraid of hearing any more.

“Don’t let your dad hear you talking like that, lass!” scolded Mrs. Gamgee’s voice before Frodo was quite out of range. “Honestly! He seems a fine lad, but don’t you go gettin’ silly ideas in that head of yours, Daisy Gamgee. If you must moon about over somebody, you’d best go back to thinking of Hobby Twofoot. That’s less likely to cause trouble.”

“Did you ever see eyes so blue?” went on the indomitable Daisy. “Like the summer sky, they were!” More giggling.

Frodo was sure his face was beet red. He clutched his sack of flour and fled up the hill as if a dragon was hot on his heels.

4. Winter Fun

December 23, 1391

The beginning of Yule was only two days away, and the arrival of a horde of guests was four days away. These considerations made the atmosphere of Bag End rather tense. Bilbo was anxious and distracted, trying to ready the smial for so many visitors, and Frodo, being a sensitive little soul, felt the tension keenly.

Frodo was currently tidying up after luncheon. Bilbo had wanted to make a start on cleaning the guest rooms and had left his young cousin in charge of the kitchen. Frodo scrubbed the last plate and rinsed it carefully in the washbasin. He glanced around for a towel to dry the dishes and spotted one sitting on the table against the far wall. Frodo sighed and decided he might as well carry the whole stack over there and sit at the table while he dried.

Frodo wrapped his arms carefully around the entire stack of plates and lifted, awkward because his arms were not long enough, and the dishes were heavy and still wet from their recent washing. Frodo curled his fingers under the bottom plate to help maintain his grip on the slippery stack clutched against his chest, and set off for the other side of the kitchen.

He reached the table, breathing rapidly with his heavy load, and bent to set the stack of dishes down next to the towel. Frodo carefully shifted his fingertips away from the bottom plate so they wouldn’t get pinched against the table, and to his horror the entire stack slipped out of his grasp and went crashing to the floor.

Frodo leaped back with a cry of alarm, just in time to avoid having his bare feet cut by hundreds of sharp fragments. Frodo surveyed the mess in dismay, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. What would Uncle Bilbo say? Here he was doing his best to not be a bother, and now he had gone and broken nine of his uncle’s dishes!

Bilbo appeared in the doorway a moment later. “Frodo-lad!” he exclaimed. “I heard such a crash! What happened?”

“I-I’m sorry, Uncle,” Frodo said, turning to face Bilbo. “I broke all the dishes! I didn’t mean to, truly!”

“Of course you didn’t, dear boy,” said Bilbo, hurrying forward and grasping Frodo by the shoulders, peering into the pale face. “Are you hurt? Did you get cut at all?”

“No, I’m fine,” Frodo answered. Bilbo seemed more distracted than angry, but the stress and anxiety that clouded the old hobbit’s features caused the knot of tension in Frodo’s stomach to tighten. Bilbo had much to do and Frodo’s clumsiness had added to his worries.

“All right then,” said Bilbo with a sigh, straightening up. “I’ll have to clean up this lot. Why don’t you walk into town and get us some more of that holly, Frodo? The parlour mantel is a little bare.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo said hollowly. He knew he was in the way. No doubt Bilbo wished he could send his troublesome nephew back to Brandy Hall, but sending him into town was the easiest thing he could do under the circumstances.

Frodo tried to shake off his melancholy mood as he went to get his cloak. Surely a walk to town would distract him from his worries. And he hadn’t seen Samwise in a few days. Maybe he would see his friend on the way to town, or some of the other Gamgee children. Frodo was fond of the Gamgees, although there was one brother he hadn’t met yet: Halfred, the second eldest. Halfred was only a couple of months younger than Frodo; Sam had said wasn’t as serious as Hamson, and often got into scrapes with his mischief. Frodo was looking forward to meeting him.

As Frodo put on his cloak and opened the front door, Bilbo was still in the kitchen, cleaning up the broken dishes and thinking distractedly of what he had yet to do to prepare the guest rooms. He never heard his nephew’s distressed sigh as the front door closed softly.

Samwise Gamgee settled back in the snow and listened to the others arguing.

“I still think we should check on the tree house,” said Hobby Twofoot. “That snowfall last night might’ve caved in the roof!” Hobby was twenty years old and lived in Number 2, Bagshot Row.

“Naw, I’m sure it’s fine,” said Halfred impatiently, and turned to a little boy with messy brown hair. “What do you think, Sappy?”

“I still wanna build a snow hobbit!” proclaimed Hobby’s little brother. Sam idly formed the snow under his hands into a ball. It had a lot of grass mixed in, because there was less than an inch of snow on the ground, but that didn’t matter.

“You always wanna build a snow hobbit,” retorted Hobby. “Come on, we worked hard on that tree house! We oughta make sure it’s all right!”

“It was fine after the last snowfall, and that was a sight bigger than the one we had last night,” Halfred said reasonably. “Now let’s think of something fun to do! It’s not every day I get the whole afternoon to play.” Sam shifted the snow ball from his left hand to his right, eyeing his older brother with a most peculiar gleam in his eye.

“Snow hobbit!” screeched Sappy, stamping impatiently. Sam frowned in disapproval. He didn’t think a sixteen-year-old ought to be throwing tantrums. It was said that the Gamgee’s neighbour, Daddy Twofoot, let his boys run wild and never taught them any manners.

“Calm down, Sappy-lad,” said Halfred irritably. Sappy glared. Samwise knew just how to diffuse the tension, and let fly with the snowball he’d been clutching these last few minutes. His aim was flawless, and Halfred Gamgee received a cold handful of snow on the back of his neck.

Halfred whirled around, gasping as the snow slid down the back of his shirt. “Why, Sam Gamgee, you rascal!” Sam giggled and sprang to his feet, darting down the hill with Halfred in hot pursuit. Hobby and Sappy joined in the merry chase, and soon all four lads were engaged in a rousing snowball fight.

Some time later, the combatants collapsed in the snow beside the path up to Bag End, panting and gasping for air.

“Well!” said Halfred at length. “I think Sam-lad had the best idea of all of us!” He ruffled Sam’s curls affectionately. Sam grinned.

Hobby roused himself with a shake and got to his feet. “I’m gonna check on the tree house now! Are you comin’ Sappy?”

“Naw,” said Sappy without opening his eyes. “Hal thinks it’s fine. I’m stayin’ here.”

“I’ll be back in a minute, then,” Hobby said with a shrug. The other three boys watched him head off. He had to walk up the path to Bag End a ways and then cut across to get to the other side of the Hill, where the tree house had been built last summer.

As soon as Hobby was out of sight, Halfred rolled over onto his stomach and grinned mischievously at the other two. “What say we give old Hobby a surprise when he comes back, eh lads?”

Samwise and Sappy sat up eagerly, and Halfred outlined a plan to hide out of sight on both sides of the path and prepare a snowball ambush for Hobby. The younger lads agreed readily, and Halfred stationed them in convenient positions. An unnatural silence soon fell over the snow-covered path, and the three boys laid in wait for their returning playmate.

After a few minutes, all three distinctly heard the crunch of footsteps upon the path, coming down the hill towards them. Sam held his breath, clenching his fist in his excitement. He looked down in dismay to see that he had crumbled the carefully-prepared snowball he’d been holding. Before he had the chance to make another one, he heard Halfred sit up beside him and throw his own snowball.

“Hal, you ninny!” cried Sappy’s voice from across the path. “That ain’t Hobby!”

Sam sat up and looked toward the path. “Mr. Frodo!” he gasped in dismay. The bewildered young gentlehobbit was standing in the path, coughing and sputtering, and trying to rid himself of the face full of snow he had received courtesy of Halfred. He didn’t know if Frodo would be angry, but the Gaffer would be furious if he heard that his sons had shown his master’s heir such disrespect.

Sam turned to look at Halfred and saw that his brother’s face had drained of colour, clearly thinking the same thing. The older lad stood up quickly and hurried over to Frodo.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Frodo!” exclaimed Halfred. “I thought you were someone else! Here, let me help you.” He grasped Frodo’s shoulder and carefully wiped the other boy’s face with the end of his scarf.

As soon as Sam got over his shock, he jumped up and ran over to Frodo. “Are you all right, Mr. Frodo?” he asked.

“No harm done,” Frodo replied, rubbing his eyes and finally getting a clear view of Halfred. “Ah! You must be Halfred Gamgee!”

“At your service, Mr. Frodo,” Halfred said sheepishly. Sam was glad to see Frodo smile at Halfred.

“I’m glad to finally meet you,” Frodo said. “I was just walking into town. Would any of you like to come along?”

“Thank you, Mr. Frodo, but we promised our mum we’d stay close in case she should need us,” Halfred answered for himself and Sam. Sappy said nothing. He was still crouching in his hiding place, too awed by the sight of mysterious old Mr. Bilbo’s heir to want to come out.

“Well, good day then,” Frodo said. “I’ll see you later anyway, I’m sure, Sam.”

“I really am sorry about the ambush, Mr. Frodo,” Halfred put in hastily. His face was no longer white with alarm, but it was rapidly turning a most interesting shade of red, as embarrassment set in.

“Please don’t worry about it,” Frodo said sincerely. “I was just surprised, is all.” He smiled slightly as he continued to look at Halfred. “And really, I must congratulate you on your excellent aim!” he added, blue eyes twinkling.

Sam snorted with laughter. There wasn’t a kinder hobbit than Mr. Frodo, he was sure. Sappy giggled from his hiding place, and Halfred couldn’t help smiling through his embarrassment. After a cordial parting, Frodo continued on his way down the hill, and the other three lads sat down to wait for Hobby, forgetting the planned ambush by mutual consensus.

“Sam-lad,” Halfred said hesitantly. “You’ve known Mr. Frodo a few weeks now. D’you think he’ll make any trouble for our Gaffer, with Master Bilbo?”

“No!” Sam exclaimed, looking at his brother in surprise. “Mr. Frodo wouldn’t ever do such a thing, Hal!”

“I had to ask,” Halfred said with a relieved sigh. “He did seem like a nice lad.”

Sam nodded in agreement, and Halfred grinned suddenly. “Daisy was right, though.”

“What about?” Sam asked suspiciously. His eldest sister was one of the silliest girls he knew.

“Mr. Frodo does have uncommonly blue eyes.” Halfred kept a straight face for a moment longer, then burst into laughter. Sam joined right in; he was terribly fond of Frodo, but who in their right mind cared about the colour of someone’s eyes? Hobby returned then with the happy news that their tree house was in excellent condition, and the snowball fight was begun anew.

Unfortunately, the fun came to an abrupt end a few minutes later when Bell Gamgee came out of Number 3, Bagshot Row, and instructed Hal to go into town and take several boxes of her Yule tarts to the baker’s shop to be sold. Sam decided to tag along, knowing he might meet Frodo in town, and the two brothers set off.

5. Undesirable Encounters

Later that afternoon, Samwise Gamgee could be seen hopping energetically along the path from town, in a peculiar zigzag fashion. He was actually hopping between footprints in the light dusting of snow, trying to follow the trail left by some unknown person hours earlier. Visiting town was always interesting to a young hobbit. He hadn’t seen Mr. Frodo, but Halfred had carried the heavy basket with the Yule tarts their mother wanted them to sell, and the baker in town had bought nearly the whole lot. Sam was now clutching a much lighter basket, containing one box of tarts, the only one left.

Halfred had seen some friends in town and lingered to talk, and Sam had grown tired of waiting. He’d begun following the sets of footprints so cunningly laid out in the snow, heading every which way. The particular set he was following now had captured his imagination because the prints were unusually large, even for a hobbit. Sam was convinced that they belonged to a dragon, and he was determined to follow the trail until he caught sight of the beast.

In fact, Sam had been instructed firmly by Halfred not to wander off, but Sam was unconcerned. Once he had seen the dragon, he would simply turn around and follow the footprints back the way he had come. Hal would most likely never notice his absence.

Sam paused to catch his breath. All this hopping was tiring work. He looked around and realized that he had come a good deal further than he’d meant to. He was out of sight of town already, and likely a third of the way home by now. Sam shifted his basket from one hand to the other and listened. He was quite sure he could hear footsteps approaching. Sam hadn’t passed anyone else on the path for quite awhile, and he suddenly began to feel uneasy, all alone on the winding white road.

Samwise was a sensible little soul, and shaking off his hesitation, he turned around and marched back toward town. He didn’t want to worry Halfred, after all. As he walked, Sam could hear the footsteps behind him drawing closer. The other hobbit would no doubt overtake him in moments, but that didn’t bother Sam. His short legs limited him to a rather slow rate of progress.

When the other hobbit appeared around the bend however, Sam began to regret his short legs. It was none other than Lotho Sackville-Baggins.

Sam had never had any contact with Lotho personally, but his eldest brother Hamson certainly had. Lotho was a year older than Hamson and Sam knew he was trouble. His brothers had warned him to stay away from Lotho. He didn’t know the particulars, only that a few years ago, Hamson had been hired to do some yard work for the Sackville-Bagginses, and Lotho had made Ham’s life miserable for the duration. There wasn’t really anything the Gaffer could do against folk so far above the Gamgees, so he’d warned all his children instead. Sam shook his head and wondered why gentlehobbits couldn’t all be like Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo.

Glancing behind him warily, Sam saw that Lotho had spotted him. He turned around again and kept his eyes focused straight ahead. Maybe Lotho would ignore him.

“Well, well,” came a drawling voice. “You must be a Gamgee.” Lotho was walking beside him now.

“Yes, sir.” Sam frowned. He didn’t like Lotho’s tone at all, but he knew it was pure folly to be rude to any member of a family of the Sackville-Bagginses rank.

“What’s in the basket, boy?” Lotho asked condescendingly.

“Just some tarts,” Sam answered, keeping his voice polite with an effort. He knew the older boy was toying with him, and Sam’s only hope was that they got to town soon. Lotho wouldn’t dare bother him if there were others around, surely.

“Let’s see, then,” Lotho said, and snatched the basket from Sam’s surprised fingers. “Hmm...” Lotho lifted out the box of tarts inside and pretended to scrutinize it carefully.

Sam realized with dismay that Lotho had stopped walking, and so Sam stopped walking too. He wouldn’t let Lotho steal his family’s basket and leftover tarts.

“Where did you buy these, boy?” Lotho asked, giving Sam a most unpleasant look with glittering green eyes.

“Didn’t buy ‘em,” Sam said. “Me mum made ‘em.”

“I don’t believe you,” Lotho said with a nasty smile. “I think you stole them.”

Sam gasped in shock. Theft was a very serious accusation. “I didn’t!” exclaimed Samwise indignantly, forgetting his effort to be polite. “Now give them back!”

“I shan’t,” said Lotho calmly, putting the basket behind his back when Sam, beginning to panic, made a grab for it. Lotho grinned cruelly. “You stole it, you filthy little liar, and I’m going to turn you in!”

Sam started to cry. He wished he had never strayed from Halfred’s side. What was this beast going to do to him? He grabbed blindly for the basket again, out of desperation, but Lotho gave Sam a shove.

Sam stumbled backward and fell on his rump in the cold snow, crying in earnest now. Lotho stood over him, holding the basket tauntingly out of reach, but Sam was too overwrought to make another attempt.

Lotho frowned. “Come on, you sneaking little thief, don’t you want your basket back?”

Sam just buried his face miserably in his knees, trying to block out Lotho’s cruel words. This caused him to miss the approach of another hobbit, this time from the direction of town.

Lotho didn’t notice the newcomer either, until he spoke.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” exclaimed a familiar voice. Sam lifted his round, tearstained face from his knees, and felt relief wash over him like a warm bath. It was Mr. Frodo standing in front of them, clutching a bulky parcel and looking angrier than Sam had ever seen him.

“Who’re you?” retorted Lotho.

“Frodo Baggins,” Frodo said shortly. Lotho’s expression changed at these words, and Sam was startled to see undisguised hatred in those eyes now fixed on Frodo’s white face.

“So you’re Mad Baggins’ brat then,” Lotho spat, green eyes glinting maliciously.

“And you are?” Frodo asked evenly.

“Lotho Sackville-Baggins,” Lotho replied, looming dangerously over the younger boy. Frodo, however, displayed no fear outwardly. Sam watched apprehensively. He didn’t think he’d ever seen someone as brave as Mr. Frodo.

“I really should have guessed that,” said Frodo. “I met your parents recently.”

“Then you know I come from a family of good breeding,” Lotho snarled, “something you’d understand nothing about, Bucklander!”

“Then show some good breeding and give Sam back his basket,” Frodo retorted.

“Who’s gonna make me? You?” Lotho drawled. Sam watched the confrontation anxiously. Lotho was nearly ten years older than Frodo and a good deal bigger. Lotho took a threatening step toward Frodo, but instead of stepping back, the smaller lad stepped right up to Lotho.

“Leave right now and never come near Sam again,” Frodo said in a low, intense voice. He was glaring into Lotho’s face, blue eyes blazing with a fury Sam had never imagined they could hold.

Lotho stepped back in surprise, mouth opening slightly. He glanced briefly at Sam, then his scowl was back in place, and he threw the basket as hard as he could at Frodo’s chest. Frodo caught it with an ‘oof!’ and stumbled back a step.

“Take it then,” Lotho spat. “But this isn’t over, Bucklander!” Lotho’s eyes glinted dangerously as he looked at Frodo, and then he turned around and stormed off.

Frodo set down the basket and came to crouch near Sam.

“Are you all right, Samwise?” Frodo asked, his blue eyes worried. He helped Sam to his feet and brushed the snow and dirt off his clothes.

Sam nodded wordlessly, staring back wide-eyed. He was quite in awe of Frodo’s courage, and touched beyond words that Frodo would defend him so.

“I’m sorry such a thing happened to you, Sam,” Frodo said then, scanning Sam’s tearstained face anxiously.

“Thank you for helpin’ me, Mr. Frodo,” Sam got out. His lower lip was trembling, and he met Frodo’s eyes hesitantly. Sam saw only sympathy and understanding in their sky-blue depths, and then Frodo pulled him close, rubbing his back soothingly as he cried.

After a minute, Samwise got himself under control with an effort and pulled away in embarrassment. It surely wasn’t his place to go crying all over Mr. Frodo. He was quite certain his Gaffer would have a thing or two to say about it.

But then Frodo was crouching in front of him, peering at him in concern and holding him steady with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Frodo expertly wiped Sam’s wet face and running nose with his own fine, embroidered handkerchief.

“Don’t let Lotho worry you, Sam,” Frodo said softly. “He’s just a very small-minded hobbit with a very small heart.”

Sam nodded, absorbing this, and looked up to see Frodo smiling slightly.

“In fact,” Frodo went on, “I ought to teach you a game I used to play, with the name of a bully who bothered me at Brandy Hall.”

“A bully bothered you, Mr. Frodo?” Sam said incredulously. He couldn’t imagine Frodo being afraid of anyone, but then he noticed Frodo cast a worried glance in the direction of Lotho’s retreat. Sam suddenly had the uncomfortable revelation that Frodo had been a great deal more frightened of Lotho than he’d let on.

“He certainly did,” Frodo said. “But I often amused myself by thinking of... additions to make to his name—er, ones that reflected his character.”

“Additions?” Samwise was curious. “How do you mean, sir?”

“Well, for Lotho—” Frodo paused to think. “‘Lotho the Lunatic’ might be appropriate.”

Sam grinned. He decided he liked this game. Frodo straightened and picked up his parcel and Sam’s basket.

“Now then, Master Samwise,” Frodo said. “Where are you supposed to be?”

Sam shrugged guiltily. “I was in town with Halfred, Mr. Frodo. We were gonna leave pretty soon, but I wandered off.”

“No matter,” said Frodo. “We’ll go back to town then and find Halfred. Come along, Sam-lad!” Frodo nodded in the direction of town and began walking, shifting his grip on his parcel and Sam’s basket.

Sam hastened to catch up. “Oh, let me carry those, sir!” the little hobbit exclaimed, and promptly seized both his own basket and Frodo’s parcel.

“Sam!” Frodo said, surprised. “You don’t have to do that. Truly!”

“I know that, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied, abashed. “But I want to help you. And ‘sides, I’m strong enough to carry both of these!”

“Of course you are, Sam,” Frodo said. “And I’m glad of the help.”

The two lads walked in silence for a few moments, and then Sam grinned suddenly.

“How ‘bout ‘Lotho the Locust,’ Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo laughed. “That’s excellent! I was just thinking ‘Lotho the Lamentable,’ myself.”

“Lotho the Louse?”

“You are fond of vermin, aren’t you, Sam!” Both lads giggled.

“Well, there’s also ‘Lotho the Loud,’” Sam said thoughtfully.

“Or ‘Lotho the Lackadaisical’!”

“I don’t know that one, sir.”

“It means lazy, which would work just as well, now that you mention it.”

The boys soon got back to town and Sam was reunited with a very relieved Halfred. Once the elder Gamgee heard that Lotho Sackville-Baggins was about, he insisted that he and Sam accompany Frodo home. Frodo agreed readily, since he had been on his way home in any case.

The two Gamgees left Frodo at the path to Bag End and went into the warm, cheerful kitchen of Number 3, Bagshot Row. Sam went to play with little Marigold on the rug in front of the hearth, but Halfred sought out his father in the back room to relate what Sam had told him of the encounter with Lotho Sackville-Baggins.

Hamfast Gamgee listened to his second-born son gravely, puffing on his pipe all the while. When Halfred finished relating what Sam had told him of Frodo’s part in the incident, the Gaffer turned to look at his son in astonishment.

“There’s more to that Mr. Frodo than meets the eye, that’s certain sure,” Hamfast said. “An’ I don’t doubt that Lotho had it in for ‘im long before he ever laid eyes on the boy.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” asked Halfred, puzzled.

“Otho Sackville-Baggins was in line to inherit Mr. Bilbo’s fortune, y’see,” Hamfast explained. “When Mr. Bilbo adopted Mr. Frodo, he cut them Sackville-Bagginses out of a mighty fine fortune. I expect old Otho and Lobelia are pretty sour about that, and no doubt told their son about poor Mr. Frodo.”

Halfred looked worried. “We know Lotho’s a bully anyhow,” he said. “Do you s’pose he might try to make trouble for Mr. Frodo now, Dad?”

“T’wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” the Gaffer said with a sigh. “You tell Hamson, and you boys keep an eye on Mr. Frodo, Hal, as well as on your little brother and sisters.”

“Aye, we will, Dad,” Halfred said stoutly. The Gaffer clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, and the two went back into the kitchen.

6. Consequences

December 24, 1391

Just after second breakfast the day before Yule, Frodo Baggins was enjoying a bath. He wouldn’t normally take a bath in the middle of the day like this, but he had awoken to find himself alone at Bag End. Bilbo had left a note saying there was an emergency up the road at the Boffins’, and he had gone to see if he could help. He expected to be back by elevenses, and had left food out for Frodo’s first and second breakfasts.

Frodo leaned back into the warm water with a sigh. He hadn’t seen any reason to dress before first breakfast, with no one there to see him. He’d eaten and lounged about in his nightclothes for awhile, and then it was time for second breakfast. Frodo had eaten that too, and by then the fire in the kitchen hearth had died down. Feeling a bit chilled, Frodo had decided to draw a bath.

He felt quite lazy, but the normal routine of Bag End had been disrupted the last few days with Yule preparations. Frodo hadn’t had any lessons all week, spending his time helping Bilbo or playing instead.

Frodo closed his eyes and let his mind wander. He was still a little shocked at his own behaviour the day before. He had never imagined he was capable of standing up to a bully like Lotho Sackville-Baggins. But when Frodo had seen Lotho tormenting poor Samwise, his fury had been so great that his fear had been almost completely eclipsed. Frodo grinned to himself, imagining how his cousin Bolo might have reacted had Frodo ever spoken to him as he’d spoken to Lotho.

He just hoped Lotho would leave both Sam and Frodo himself alone from now on. Frodo didn’t want any trouble to arise that might get back to Bilbo.

But it was hard to dwell on his old worries when he was enjoying a bath. After a few more minutes of day-dreaming, Frodo reluctantly got out of the tub and dressed himself in a white linen shirt and brown trousers.

Frodo frowned in consternation as he finished emptying the tub. He’d quite forgotten to wash himself! Oh, well. Frodo shrugged this off with the unconcern of any grubby hobbit in his early tweens and went out to the parlour where he’d been hanging holly the evening before.

The room was half done when Bilbo returned a little while later.

“Glad to see you’ve managed without me,” chuckled Bilbo when he saw Frodo through the doorway.

“Is all well at the Boffins’, Uncle?” Frodo asked, smiling back tentatively.

“Mrs. Boffin is ill, I’m afraid,” Bilbo said with a sigh, coming to sit in a high-backed chair near Frodo. “She’ll be bedridden for a few days, I expect.”

“Does she have any children?” Frodo inquired. After his years adrift in Brandy Hall, Frodo always had a thought to spare for potentially unsupervised youngsters.

“Yes, Folco and his two sisters,” Bilbo replied. “But don’t worry, lad, old Mrs. Chubb is keeping an eye on them.” Bilbo was quite familiar with Frodo’s past and could guess his concern easily. Bilbo smiled affectionately at his young cousin. He’d always known the boy had a good heart.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Frodo said, and glanced around the room. Everything looked quite festive, but he had yet to do the high mantle. As Frodo paused, contemplating how he would reach, Bilbo stood and dragged over the chair he’d been sitting in. He placed it before the mantle, making sure it was stable, and gave Frodo’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Try this, lad,” Bilbo said. “I’ll go get us our elevenses, and then maybe you can run over to the Boffins’ and give poor Mr. Boffin one of those cranberry loaves we baked last night.”

“I’d be happy to, Uncle,” replied Frodo.

Once the elevenses dishes had been cleaned up, Frodo took the fragrant loaf that Bilbo had carefully wrapped and set out. He knew where the Boffin hole was, although he had never had occasion to visit. It was in a secluded spot, at the end of a lonely lane that branched off the path to town and wound its way through a lightly wooded area.

Frodo was knocking on the Boffins’ round red door within twenty minutes, and an exhausted-looking Mr. Boffin answered. Frodo introduced himself and explained his errand, and Mr. Boffin accepted the cranberry loaf gratefully.

“Glad to see you, lad,” Mr. Boffin said, smiling thoughtfully at the dark-haired child. “Come again sometime when things settle down. I’ve a boy about your age you might like to meet.”

“Thank you, I’ll do that, Mr. Boffin,” Frodo answered, before taking his leave. He enjoyed the walk back to the main road. The lane was quiet and peaceful, and he could hear the trees rustling gently in the breeze. Frodo tried to relax. Things had been going well at Bag End lately. The Yule preparations were almost complete and Bilbo seemed more cheerful now. Perhaps those Sackville-Bagginses had been mistaken after all, and Bilbo wouldn’t get tired of having him around.

A little further along, he noticed several sets of footprints in the snow that he didn’t think had been there the last time he’d passed. Frodo frowned, wondering who would come this far along the winding path but no further. All was quiet now, even the trees on both sides of the path, seemingly. Where had the owners of the extra footprints gone?

Frodo looked back toward the Boffin hole, puzzled. While he was turned, strong hands suddenly seized him by the arms. Frodo yelped in surprise and tried to pull away.

“Hold him, Ted,” snapped an unpleasantly familiar voice.

Frodo felt dread sinking in his stomach like a block of ice. He made himself look up to meet the eyes of Lotho Sackville-Baggins. Frodo swallowed once, willing his voice not to tremble. “Wh-what do you want?”

Lotho grinned down at him unpleasantly. “We have some unfinished business, Bucklander,” he sneered.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Frodo said as calmly as he could, but he was dreadfully frightened. This Ted who still held his arms in a bruising grip was clearly too strong to permit Frodo to wriggle free. And there was no Samwise present to carry tales this time; Lotho had Frodo at a distinct disadvantage and he knew it.

“You interfered with my fun yesterday, you little rat,” Lotho snarled.

“You were tormenting my friend!” Frodo exclaimed indignantly, despite himself. He was quite unprepared when Lotho suddenly punched him in the stomach. Frodo gasped in pain and doubled over, but Ted just pulled him upright.

“Your friend,” Lotho said, surveying the younger lad in satisfaction, “is the son of a gardener. If he’s your friend, then you’re even more worthless than I thought!”

Frodo could only stare disbelievingly at his assailant through watering eyes. Lotho hit him again and Frodo cried out. This time Ted let him fall to the ground, where Frodo tried to curl into a ball. He felt too winded to try running away now. Lotho smirked and kicked him hard in the ribs a few times, then crouched down beside his sobbing victim.

“Go back to Buckland, little rat,” Lotho hissed. “That old coot’s money belongs to us.” And then before Frodo could believe the ordeal was finally over, both Lotho and Ted ran back toward the main road.

Frodo stifled his sobs with an effort and listened carefully. Once he couldn’t hear the older lads anymore, he climbed painfully to his feet. Well, Bilbo would certainly know Frodo was a troublemaker now, if he hadn’t realized before. It was only a matter of time before Bilbo decided to send him back to Brandy Hall. But what had Lotho meant about money? Frodo shook his head, confused and cold and hurt. He started to walk back to Bag End, crying softly and clutching his injured middle.

7. Secrets

“I still say we ought to have waited till next snowfall, Ham,” said Halfred Gamgee, slinging his snow shovel over his shoulder. “Why, there weren’t more than an inch on the ground!”

“Well, Widow Chubb disagreed with ye, Hal,” replied Hamson, clapping his younger brother on the back. “Besides, this way we get more work, if it snows again and all.”

“Aye,” said Halfred. “But I still don’t see why some folks want their walks shovelled after every snowfall. It’ll need another shovelling before next market day, certain sure! Why not wait for it to add up some?”

“Widow Chubb always was a fussy old thing,” said Hamson with a shrug. “Anyhow, we’re nearly home, and it’s about time for luncheon. What do ye reckon Mum made today, Hal?”

“Hmm...” Halfred smiled at the change in topic, as most hobbits do when the conversation turns to food. “A nice bit o’ pork, I’ll wager.”

“No, you won’t!” retorted Hamson. “You know our Gaffer frowns on wagerin’.”

Halfred joined his brother in laughter, picturing how the Gaffer’s face looked when he was in the middle of a really engrossing lecture. The two boys tramped merrily along the road, carefree and laughing after a hard morning’s work, as only tweenagers can be.

The peace of the quiet December morning was suddenly shattered when two other lads came pelting out onto the road from a branching path.

“Well, look who’s been up to goodness-knows-what,” muttered Hamson to his brother, for the hobbits coming toward them were none other than Lotho Sackville-Baggins and Ted Sandyman.

The Gamgee lads, expecting at least a snide remark from Lotho, stepped aside for the other two to pass. As it happened, Lotho and Ted were too preoccupied with laughing over their mischief to spare a thought for Hamson and Halfred, although Ted did call a cheery “Good morning to ye, lads!” over his shoulder.

“Wonder what that was all about?” Halfred said, as the brothers resumed their walk.

“Nothing good, you mark my words,” said Hamson darkly.

Just then, they passed the path that Lotho and Ted had emerged from: they could see a small, dark-haired figure walking slowly towards them.

“Why, Mr. Frodo!” exclaimed Hamson, stopping in his tracks.

The figure lifted its curly head in surprise. “Hullo, Hamson!” Frodo said a little breathlessly.

“What were ye doin’ back there?” blurted Halfred. Hamson shot his brother a look of disapproval.

“Er, I was bringing one of Bilbo’s cranberry loaves to the Boffins,” Frodo replied after a peculiar pause.

“We meant no disrespect, Mr. Frodo,” said Hamson apologetically, “only we saw Lotho and Ted come out of there just now. They didn’t give you any grief, did they? On account of your helpin’ our Sam yesterday?”

Frodo stared back at Hamson with unreadable blue eyes, which Hamson suddenly noticed were very red.

“Mr. Frodo, are you all right?” cried Halfred in alarm, taking in the other lad’s white face and tense posture.

“Oh...” Frodo said vaguely. “Yes... I’m fine, Halfred.”

“You’re not,” said Hamson suddenly, sounding quite odd. Halfred looked at his brother in surprise. Hamson was usually the most soft-spoken of hobbits. “They hurt ye, didn’t they?!” Hamson exclaimed.

Frodo seemed unable to look away, but his wide blue eyes filled suddenly with tears. “Oh no, I’m all right, Hamson!” he exclaimed in alarm. “Truly! You won’t tell Uncle Bilbo, will you?” The lad seemed nearly hysterical, which quite shocked the two Gamgees. They had never seen Frodo anything but calm and unflappable.

“If you’re sure you’re all right, Mr. Frodo, o’ course we won’t mention it to Mr. Bilbo if that’s what ye want,” Halfred said.

“Thank you,” said Frodo, looking relieved. He hurriedly wiped his eyes on his sleeve, seeming to collect himself with an effort. “Who was that friend of Lotho’s, anyway? Ted, he was called.”

Hamson smiled grimly. “Don’t let old Lotho catch ye sayin’ that, Mr. Frodo. He’d be right insulted to hear ye thinkin’ he might be friends with the likes of Ted Sandyman.”

“Why?” said Frodo, clearly puzzled.

“The miller’s son,” Halfred clarified, bemused by Frodo’s inability to grasp the obvious. “Poor Ted is big an’ stupid an’ does whatever Lotho says. But I’m afraid Mr. Lotho would consider friendship with the likes o’ him, or us for that matter, beneath his dignity.”

“Oh,” Frodo said uncomfortably, looking down at his feet.

“We’ll see you the rest o’ the way home,” Hamson said, exchanging a look with his brother.

Frodo nodded his agreement and the three resumed their walk. Frodo appeared relaxed and at ease, but Hamson continued to watch the younger boy with narrowed eyes. Halfred looked at his brother and realized suddenly that Hamson suspected there had been more to the encounter than Frodo was letting on.

After bidding farewell to Hamson and Halfred, Frodo went slowly up the steps to Bag End. He ached all over, but he had done his best to walk normally in front of the Gamgee brothers; he didn’t know what Hamson would do if he realized that Frodo was indeed hurt. He rubbed vigorously at his face to eliminate any remaining evidence that he’d been crying, and opened the round green door.

“Ah, Frodo-lad!” exclaimed Bilbo cheerfully from the dining-room, where he was dusting shelves. “Excellent, you’re back. I caught little Samwise poking around that big snowdrift outside the kitchen window, muttering about Dwarf caves, so I recruited him to help you with the last of the holly!”

“Oh?” Frodo said weakly. With an effort, he pasted a smile on his face, the one he had often used at Brandy Hall to avoid unwanted attention. “Is he here now?”

“Gone home. He’ll be back after luncheon. Ours is nearly ready, by the way.”

“I’ll just change my clothes, then.” Frodo untied his damp winter cloak, collected some dry clothes from his room, and closeted himself in the large bathroom. He lit the lamp and peered at his pale reflection in the looking glass. He ached so much, he just wanted to crawl into bed and be miserable in peace. Frodo slipped his braces off and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off stiffly. He gasped when he saw his reflection; there were dark, purpling bruises on his stomach and all over his ribs. Frodo turned sideways and saw that the bruises continued across his back.

Frodo moaned softly in dismay. How in middle earth was he to keep up this charade of normality for the rest of the day? And tomorrow? How long would it be until his bruises healed? Frodo had no idea. Hours? Days? This was far more difficult than it would have been at Brandy Hall, Frodo mused. When he was upset about anything at Brandy Hall, it was a fairly simple matter to stay out of everyone’s way and avoid notice.

Here at Bag End, on the other hand, there were only himself and Bilbo; he would have to be extra careful if he wanted Bilbo to remain ignorant of his difficulties. His resolve thus strengthened, Frodo put on his dry shirt and trousers. Then he went out to have luncheon with Bilbo.

That afternoon, Sam Gamgee trotted up the path to Bag End to help with the last of the decorating. He found Frodo hard at work in the parlour, and Sam set to helping him. Samwise, being the smallest person in the hole, soon noticed that Bilbo’s dusting had missed the baseboards and feet of all the furniture, and he took it upon himself to roust out a small rag and correct the oversight.

From his position crouched on his knees between two armchairs, Sam thought he heard Frodo groan softly. Sitting up, Sam turned to look at Frodo, who was still working on the mantelpiece. Sam narrowed his eyes. Now that he troubled to watch, he noticed that the usually graceful gentlehobbit was moving stiffly and clumsily.

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam said tentatively. “Are you all right, sir?”

Frodo turned slightly to look at Sam. “I’m fine, thanks, Sam.” Frodo’s normally expressive blue eyes were unreadable, but he smiled reassuringly. “I’m just a little tired, is all.”

Sam nodded and turned back to his dusting, but when Frodo went back to his own work, Sam lifted his brown eyes again, silently this time. He watched Frodo carefully, and suddenly noticed that Frodo hadn’t managed to tuck in the back of his shirt. Frodo reached across the mantelpiece then, balanced precariously on a chair, and the hem of his shirt lifted enough for Sam to catch a glimpse of discoloured flesh.

Samwise bit back a cry of alarm. Ham and Hal had been right. Sam stared at Frodo for a moment, quite amazed at the older lad’s ability to disguise his true feelings. What sort of upbringing had Mr. Frodo had, away over in Buckland, to make him so adept at feigning good cheer? But Samwise was not fooled any longer. He got to his feet and went over to the mantelpiece. “I know you’re not fine, sir,” Sam said.

Frodo looked at him in surprise and stepped down off the chair. “Whatever do you mean, Sam?”

“Your poor back is bruised,” Sam persisted. “I saw it just now, Mr. Frodo! Now tell your Sam the truth: that Lotho Sackville-Baggins did this, didn’t he!”

Frodo’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know?!” he exclaimed, too shocked to continue his denial.

“I heard Ham and Hal talking about you,” little Sam replied stoutly. “Now why won’t ye tell Mr. Bilbo?”

“No!” Frodo exclaimed in alarm. “Sam, you’ve got to listen to me. You must promise not to tell Uncle Bilbo!”

Sam folded his chubby brown arms and glared at Frodo. “Mr. Frodo, you got into all this trouble on account o’ me, and I already feel real bad about that! How can I promise not ta tell?”

“Sam,” Frodo began, sitting limply on the chair he had just been standing on. “None of this is your fault, truly! But I need you to promise.”

“Why, Mr. Frodo?” exclaimed Sam earnestly. He couldn’t bear to see Frodo in pain, and his honest brown eyes filled with tears. “Why won’t you let Mr. Bilbo help you?” To Sam, the problem was quite straightforward. Bilbo was Frodo’s guardian, just as the Gaffer was Sam’s; Frodo should go to Bilbo as surely as Sam would go to his Gaffer if he got in over his head.

“Oh, Sam, please don’t cry!” said Frodo, struggling not to cry himself. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure out how to handle everything, truly I will. There’s no need to trouble Uncle Bilbo.”

Sam stared at Frodo, unconvinced.

“Sam,” Frodo continued reluctantly. “I have to show Uncle Bilbo I’m not a nuisance, or he might send me back to Buckland!”

Sam’s eyes widened. He certainly didn’t want Frodo to be sent away, and yet he couldn’t picture kindly old Mr. Bilbo doing such a thing. But, Frodo was Sam’s elder by twelve years, and he did seem to know a great deal about everything. “No one could ever imagine ye to be a nuisance, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said softly. “But I won’t say a word ta Mr. Bilbo at present.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo said, closing his eyes. “And after all,” he continued, trying to reassure Sam. “I always managed my own affairs when I lived at Brandy Hall, and I’ve done all right so far.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam agreed, and Frodo turned back to his task. Sam took up his dust rag again and got down to business, but his kind heart was touched with concern, and he knew he could not do as Frodo had asked. Oh, certainly he would say nothing to Mr. Bilbo; he had promised, after all. But he had promised nothing about telling anyone else, and little Sam was determined to relate the entire matter to his Gaffer as soon as he got home. The Gaffer would know what to do, if anyone did.

8. Various Visitors

That evening after supper, Bilbo Baggins sat smoking his pipe in the dimly lit kitchen. The supper dishes were all cleaned up, and it was only six thirty. Bilbo sighed and blew another smoke ring. It had never before occurred to him how dull his evenings had been before he’d adopted Frodo.

Having a child around with an imagination as lively as Frodo’s, and an intellect to match, was truly a blessing. Bilbo had been delighted and relieved to find Frodo shaking off his former melancholy and settling in cheerfully at Bag End these last few weeks. The lad had been unpardonably neglected at Brandy Hall, and he’d really seemed to blossom under Bilbo’s care.

But lately, Bilbo had been worried. Just in the last week or so, Frodo had been increasingly withdrawn and quiet. Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder; was the boy becoming homesick for Brandy Hall? He wanted what was best for Frodo, of course, but the old hobbit was sure his heart would break if he was forced to send the child back to his Buckland relations.

Bilbo clenched his teeth around the stem of his pipe. He didn’t like to think of Bag End without Frodo. The old place would be unbearably dreary.

Nevertheless, Bilbo was worried. Was the child afraid to tell him he wanted to go back to Buckland? He sighed again. Few would guess it of old ‘Mad Baggins,’ but Bilbo really understood his young nephew quite well. He knew that Frodo was a kind-hearted, thoughtful lad who could be too serious for his own good sometimes. Keeping silent through fear of hurting Bilbo’s feelings or making him worry was unfortunately exactly the sort of thing that Frodo was capable of.

And now the dear boy was resting in his room. He had seemed dreadfully pale at supper, and said scarcely two words. Bilbo had suggested they read together by the fire as they often did after supper, but Frodo, pleading exhaustion, had gone to his room. Bilbo shook his head. He hoped the lad wasn’t coming down with something.

Frodo lay stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint Bilbo, but he really didn’t think he could sit up all evening and pretend nothing was the matter. His bruises ached most abominably now, so much that he was forced to take shallow breaths to avoid hurting his tender ribs. Surely he would feel better soon?

The twenty-three-year-old hobbit sat up gingerly. He was beginning to fear that Samwise had been correct; perhaps this was too much for him to handle and he should have told Uncle Bilbo about the trouble with Lotho. Frodo glanced at his closed bedroom door. Bilbo was likely still in the kitchen. If he told and promised very earnestly never to get in any trouble again, perhaps Bilbo wouldn’t even be angry enough to send him back to Brandy Hall?

Frodo shook his head and got carefully to his feet. He opened the door noiselessly and slipped out into the hall. He would go and see what Bilbo was doing... and then maybe he would make up his mind.

When he was just approaching the kitchen, Frodo heard a loud knock at the front door. Bilbo came out of the kitchen and went to answer the door, never looking down the hall to where Frodo was standing like a startled rabbit. Thinking quickly, Frodo slipped into the kitchen to wait for Bilbo. Hopefully the visitors wouldn’t stay long.

Bilbo suppressed a groan when he saw who was standing on his front step.

“Otho! Lobelia!” he exclaimed, trying to sound happy, or at least not too dismayed. “To what do I owe the... pleasure?” Bilbo was rather proud that he’d managed that last sentence without smirking. The Sackville-Bagginses weren’t nearly as vitriolic when he managed to appear civil.

“We must have words with you, Bilbo!” Lobelia fairly shrieked. She and her husband pushed past Bilbo and swept imperiously into the parlour. Bilbo followed his unpleasant cousins reluctantly. At least Lobelia wouldn’t find any spoons in there to pocket.

Otho and Lobelia were both scowling far more than usual, which indicated that this evening’s visit was going to be particularly disagreeable. Bilbo sighed. At least Frodo was in his room and wouldn’t have to witness whatever unpleasantness was coming.

The two visitors had seated themselves, uninvited, on the best couch in the parlour; they each wore an identical glare that would freeze a boiled tater. Bilbo took the chair across from them.

“Well then! How can I be of assistance?” Bilbo said genially. It would never do to show apprehension in front of these two. Sackville-Bagginses were like dragons; they could smell fear. Bilbo fought a smile at the image of the squat, sour-faced Lobelia as a dragon, but her next words drove all humour from his mind.

“We’ve come to see that justice is done!” Lobelia cried. “That brat of yours must be punished!”

“I see,” said Bilbo calmly. “And what, may I ask, have you to accuse Frodo of?”

“He has insulted our good name!” said Otho, urged on by vigorous nodding and elbowing from Lobelia. “The little monster maliciously slandered our family, in front of our poor Lotho.”

“Is that so?” Bilbo raised an eyebrow. This was almost as creative as the time the S.-B.’s had accused young Hamson Gamgee of stealing a valuable vase that was later discovered to have been smashed by none other than Lotho Sackville-Baggins. As far as Bilbo was concerned, Lotho was the only ‘little monster’ in the conversation, but the old hobbit was far too refined to say as much.

“Yes! And the impudent boy must be punished!” Lobelia’s face was turning red with anger at Bilbo’s lack of reaction.

“What exactly did he say?” Bilbo inquired mildly.

“He said—” Lobelia began in a furious shriek, but then moderated her voice slightly. “He said our family was no better than—the Gamgees, those dirt-grubbing gardeners of yours. Can you imagine such cheek?”

Bilbo raised his other eyebrow. He had thought for many years that if there was any justice in the world, the S.-B.’s would be worse off than the Gamgees, but Bilbo knew perfectly well that Frodo would never say such a thing, regardless.

“Honestly, Bilbo, I can’t believe you would choose such a malicious child as your heir,” Lobelia continued, shaking her head in contrived bewilderment. “I can only hope that you’ll reconsider the wisdom of that thoughtless decision.”

Lobelia spoke with the air of a virtuous parent, regretfully admonishing a particularly wilful and foolish child. It made Bilbo want to gag, but of course he knew well enough what was taking place. One of the S.-B.’s, most likely Lotho, had manufactured the charge against Frodo in an effort to convince Bilbo to reinstate Otho as his legal heir.

Of course, if Lobelia had been aware that Bilbo had known the boy all his young life, and knew from experience that Frodo was one of the least malicious children alive, her scheming would likely have taken some other direction. Bilbo sighed. He had never thought such trouble would come of his adoption of Frodo. Certainly he had expected some amount of resentment and bitterness from the S.-B.’s, who tended to be resentful and bitter regardless of the circumstances, but he hadn’t thought they would be so low as to involve a young tweenager in their mercenary schemes. Bilbo rubbed the bridge of his nose. Frodo mustn’t hear of any of this, Bilbo mused. He was a sensitive boy, and he was too young to understand.

“Is that so?” Bilbo answered finally, and anyone who knew him well would realize that Lobelia had nearly pushed him too far.

Lobelia nodded indignantly, then smiled at Bilbo slyly and said helpfully, “You know, if you don’t think you’re up to punishing the little beast, Otho will be happy to give him a good, sound thrashing for you.”

“Just what the boy needs,” Otho said agreeably.

Bilbo fixed the pair with a baleful eye, suddenly looking more dangerous than any doddering old hobbit had a right to. Bilbo had been raised to be well-mannered in any social situation, but he did not tolerate malice kindly. Bilbo got to his feet, signalling that the interview was over, and Otho and Lobelia did the same.

“You most certainly will not touch that boy,” Bilbo said, controlling himself with an effort. When Lobelia looked about to protest, a little imp prompted Bilbo to add, “I can assure you, I will most definitely punish Frodo... as severely as he deserves.”

Lobelia glared at him suspiciously, rusty wheels slowly turning in her head, but there was no way she could hear Bilbo continue mentally, ...meaning I won’t punish the dear boy a jot, so she sniffed in disgust and flounced out the door, her husband trailing after her.

Bilbo dropped weakly back into his chair. Despite the act he had put on for the S.-B.’s, the thought of anyone beating his young cousin made him feel ill. Bilbo sighed and closed his eyes. He simply had to think of some way to convince Lobelia and Otho to leave poor Frodo be. What had he done to deserve such abominable relations?

Frodo tiptoed back to his room, white and trembling, and so very sore. He hadn’t really meant to eavesdrop, but from his position in the kitchen he had been able to hear the entire conversation between Uncle Bilbo and Lotho’s parents. Well, mainly he had heard Lobelia’s shrill voice. Bilbo’s remarks had been too soft to really make out, but Frodo had gotten the gist of the discussion.

Despite Frodo’s best efforts, Bilbo was going to reconsider his adoption, and from the sound of things, punish him as well. Frodo didn’t understand why Lotho would make up such a story, but he shuddered at the thought of another beating. Would Bilbo believe him if he said that Lotho had lied? Frodo thought he probably would... but then surely Bilbo would take the word of two adults over a twenty-three-year-old boy’s.

Frodo closed his bedroom door behind him and crawled miserably into his bed. He was crying now, frightened and angry that he was going to lose Bilbo after waiting so long to have him. Frodo curled up into a ball under his blankets, struggling to contain his sobs. Crying was making the bruises on his ribs hurt dreadfully, but eventually Frodo fell into an exhausted slumber.

Meanwhile, Bilbo returned to the kitchen and took up his forgotten pipe. He had just gotten settled when he heard another knock at the door. The old hobbit sprang to his feet, ready to give Lobelia a piece of his mind if that was she coming back again, and hang good manners.

But Bilbo flung open the front door to see a rather startled Gaffer Gamgee standing there this time.

“Master Hamfast!” Bilbo exclaimed in relieved surprise. “Do come in! I have a good fire going in the kitchen.”

Hamfast nodded and followed Bilbo inside. Bilbo insisted that Hamfast sit at the table while Bilbo made a pot of tea, much to the Gaffer’s consternation.

“Now then,” said Bilbo, pouring the tea and taking a seat across from his gardener. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Well, Master Bilbo,” Hamfast said, fingering the ties on his sleeve. “I just wanted to ask you, how is Mr. Frodo this evenin’?”

“Frodo?” Bilbo asked in surprise. “Why do you ask?” Bilbo leaned forward, wondering what this was all about. Did Hamfast know something about Frodo’s recent behaviour? Had the lad confided his homesickness to Samwise, perhaps?

The Gaffer hesitated briefly, then looked up to meet Bilbo’s anxious brown eyes. “Sir, I wanted to tell ye how grateful we are for Mr. Frodo’s comin’ to the rescue of our Sam yesterday. That’s a right fine boy you’ve got there, if ye don’t mind my saying so.”

Bilbo stared back, bewildered. Frodo certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about rescuing the gardener’s youngest son. “Well, naturally, I don’t mind, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to, Master Hamfast.”

“Aye?” Hamfast said, clearly surprised. “Well, sir, that Lotho Sackville-Baggins was tormenting young Samwise out on the road to town yesterday, and Mr. Frodo came along and told ‘im off proper-like. You oughta be real proud o’ him, sir.”

“I am!” said an astonished Bilbo. “And I always have been.”

“At any rate, sir, I’m right sorry that Mr. Frodo’s kindness got him in trouble with that Mr. Lotho,” Hamfast continued, watching Bilbo anxiously.

“What trouble?” Bilbo sat up straight. He knew Lotho to be one of those children who could be disarmingly sweet to adults but a savage bully to those younger and weaker than himself.

“Master Bilbo, I’m worried, from what my lads ‘ave told me, that Mr. Lotho and Ted Sandyman might’ve given Mr. Frodo a thrashing this morning, to teach ‘im a lesson for helping Sam,” Hamfast said.

Bilbo’s face drained of colour. “Wh-what?” he said weakly. “My boy?” Time seemed abruptly to slow down, as shock battled with horror.

Hamfast waited patiently, watching his master with worried eyes.

Bilbo ran a hand through his greying curls and finally looked up at his gardener. “Hamfast, you have children of your own. Please advise me! What do I do?”

“Well, sir,” the Gaffer said gently, “if you’re askin’ my opinion, I’d say ye oughta talk to Mr. Frodo before ye do anythin’ else. I might’ve been wrong.”

“Talk to him?” Bilbo repeated desperately. “He would have told me if any such thing had happened, surely!”

“Aye,” said Hamfast steadily. “Sir, it ain’t my place to say so, but from what young Sam ‘as told me, Mr. Frodo might need a bit o’... reassurance from ye.”

“Reassurance?”

“Little ‘uns are like that sometimes, Master,” said Hamfast with an embarrassed shrug. “Ye move ‘em to a new home an’ they can feel unsure o’ their place, if ye follow me, sir.” Hamfast watched Bilbo carefully, determined that he understand.

Bilbo stood quickly, and Hamfast followed suit. “I must speak with Frodo,” Bilbo muttered, half to himself.

The Gaffer nodded in agreement, looking relieved that he wouldn’t have to make any more such appallingly forward speeches. Satisfied that his mission was accomplished, Hamfast took his leave, and Bilbo hurried to Frodo’s room. He knocked on the door and waited. Might Frodo be asleep already? No, it was just barely eight o’clock. Bilbo waited a few long moments, and just when he was about to knock again, the door opened slowly.

Frodo stood in the doorway blinking up at him in the light of the hall. Bilbo saw that Frodo’s room was dark.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry, lad,” Bilbo said. “Did I wake you?”

Frodo shrugged. “That’s all right, Uncle. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I still need to put on my nightclothes.”

Bilbo hesitated. “I must ask you something, dear boy.”

Frodo looked up at Bilbo with those startling blue eyes and waited.

“Hamfast told me how you helped Sam yesterday, but he said you might have had another run-in with Lotho Sackville-Baggins today,” Bilbo began. “I need you to tell me what sort of trouble Lotho gave you.”

Frodo looked confused by his question, as though he had been expecting something else entirely. “Oh...” Frodo said finally. “Well, nothing, really. He just wanted to scare me.”

Bilbo sighed in relief. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right, dear boy.” Frodo looked as if he were about to say something else then, but changed his mind and looked down at the floor.

Bilbo ruffled the lad’s dark curls affectionately and kissed him on the forehead. “We can talk about this more tomorrow. Why don’t you go on back to bed then, Frodo-lad. You do look tired.”

Frodo nodded and smiled weakly before closing the door. Bilbo sighed. That dreadful Lotho had given Frodo a scare; that could explain the boy’s odd behaviour today, although it didn’t really explain the past week. But at least he knew Frodo hadn’t been harmed. Bilbo, feeling somewhat better about the situation, went to his study to work on his book a little before bed.

9. A New Seed is Planted

December 25, 1391

He felt warm and relaxed, blissfully unaware of his surroundings. He drifted contentedly on a wave of drowsiness. He didn’t know where he was, or what time it was, or what he was supposed to be remembering, and it didn’t matter.

Unfortunately, some distant part of his sluggish mind eventually informed him that he was too warm, and he would have to move if he wanted to get comfortable again. Frodo tried to push the thought away and return to his previous lack of awareness, but it was no good. He was waking up.

Frodo suddenly began to suspect that if he moved any further toward consciousness, he wouldn’t like the result one bit. But now his eyes were fluttering open, and there was bright light in the room. Frodo squinted against the brightness. Sunlight. He had forgotten to close the drapes the night before, and the sun was shining directly upon his head through the little round window. It was extremely uncomfortable.

Irritably, Frodo tried to turn over to get out of that patch of sunlight, and he became aware of something even more uncomfortable. Frodo moaned involuntarily. He ached so badly he could barely move. Frodo lay still for another few minutes, until the sun on his face began to irritate him again, and then he rolled himself clumsily to the edge of the bed and sat up slowly.

Frodo realized with some surprise that it was late, but his mind felt too fuzzy round the edges to wonder why Bilbo hadn’t woken him. He got up and dressed himself in a painful daze, struggling with his braces for a moment before giving up in frustration. He dropped the offending objects on the bed and stumbled out into the hall. Maybe he would put them on later.

The fog that seemed to be before his eyes did not clear, but Frodo eventually found himself outside the kitchen. He could hear voices from within, and at length he realized they belonged to Bilbo and Sam. They were icing the baked Yule treats that Frodo had quite forgotten the day before. Frodo struggled to focus on what he was hearing, and finally realized that Bilbo was telling one of his best Elf stories.

Frodo stepped forward to stand in the doorway. Both hobbits seated at the table looked up, but their cheerful Yule greetings died on their lips when they saw the pale tween leaning against the doorjamb.

“Frodo-lad! I thought a bit of a lie-in would do you good, but you look dreadful!” exclaimed Bilbo. “Whatever is the matter?”

Frodo stared for a moment before he understood his uncle’s words. “N-nothing’s the matter, Uncle,” he stammered.

Samwise got to his feet and started to come forward, his brown eyes wide with concern. “Are them bruises still painin’ you, Mr. Frodo?” he asked anxiously, and then said “Oh!” for he realized he had just broken his promise.

Frodo had quite forgotten about the promise, but he stared at his friend in consternation, unable to explain why Sam had clapped one small hand over his mouth. Why was his mind so sluggish today? And why did Bilbo look so odd? The old hobbit’s face had gone quite pale, and Frodo could not interpret his expression. He felt sure that he would understand what was going on if only his ribs and stomach would stop aching so dreadfully.

Bilbo stood abruptly, motioned to Sam to stay put, and strode quickly past Frodo, snagging the puzzled boy’s hand and dragging him along on his way out.

“Uncle, what are you doing?” cried Frodo as he stumbled along after Bilbo, struggling to keep up with the old hobbit’s rapid pace.

Bilbo made no answer, but when they arrived in Frodo’s room, he sat his young cousin down on the edge of his bed and abruptly began undoing the buttons of Frodo’s shirt. Frodo was too shocked to resist, and quite suddenly his shirt was in Bilbo’s hands, and the old hobbit was staring at him with that same peculiar expression.

Well, not staring at him, exactly. Staring at his middle. Frodo looked down. Oh, yes, the bruises. How could I have forgotten a thing like that? Frodo wondered muzzily. They had changed from their original purple to a veritable rainbow of colours.

“Lotho did this, didn’t he,” Bilbo said tightly, and it was not a question. Frodo stared with wide blue eyes, and quite suddenly he was able to identify his uncle’s expression: It was pure, unbridled fury. Frodo nearly took a deep breath, but stopped himself automatically before he could hurt his ribs.

He didn’t think he had ever seen anyone so angry before, certainly not kindly old Bilbo. Tears filled Frodo’s eyes and he lost his tenuous grip on control. Bilbo was furious with him. Frodo looked down to hide his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Uncle,” he choked out. “I didn’t mean to be so troublesome.”

“Troublesome?!” Frodo heard the shocked exclamation through his tears. Bilbo lifted his face with gentle hands. “Whatever gave you such an idea, dear boy?” the old hobbit asked, sounding mystified now, more than furious.

Frodo was too distraught to answer immediately, and Bilbo quickly pulled the quilt off the bed and wrapped it around his quivering shoulders. Then he sat down beside Frodo and pulled the unresisting child into his arms.

“Hush, now, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo murmured. “Whatever it is that weighs on your mind so, you must tell me.”

Frodo lifted his wet face from Bilbo’s shoulder and looked at his uncle hesitantly. “You- you’re not angry?” he asked in confusion.

“With you? Certainly not!” Bilbo exclaimed, but in a tone that suggested he was definitely angry with someone. “Now tell me what put such a ridiculous idea into your head!”

It took Frodo several seconds to absorb Bilbo’s words. He wasn’t angry. Frodo sniffled, reassured; it suddenly seemed like a wonderful idea to unburden himself. Bilbo would know what to do. Bilbo always knew what to do.

The whole story finally spilled out of Frodo. “Well Uncle, Mistress Lobelia said—she said—that you didn’t want me, and you’d regret adopting me and send me back to Brandy Hall first chance you got, as soon as you realized what a troublemaker I was. And I did try not to be a bother, but like Aunt Pyrimidine says, trouble just seems to follow me.”

Bilbo stiffened slightly, and his face went an alarming shade of red. After a long moment the old hobbit seemed to get control of himself, and then he began stroking Frodo’s curls gently.

“I truly did try not to cause you any trouble, but then I made Lotho angry and he beat me and—oh, I couldn’t bear it if you’d thought I’d been fighting and sent me back!” Frodo couldn’t believe he was saying these things, but Bilbo continued to hold him, rocking him gently and now drying his tears with a handkerchief, and the words just seemed to rush out all by themselves. And it did feel so nice to be held like this.

Frodo’s sobs had finally subsided when Bilbo cleared his throat and looked down to meet his cousin’s eyes. “First of all, my dear boy, you are not a troublemaker.”

Frodo laid his head on Bilbo’s shoulder again. “They all said I was back in Buckland,” he mumbled.

“You are not a troublemaker,” Bilbo repeated more firmly. “You have had a difficult and tragic childhood, and yet you are a good, kind-hearted lad who knows how to treat others well and does not tolerate injustice.”

Frodo flushed slightly. But Bilbo wasn’t finished yet.

“Yes, I know why Lotho was angry with you. The Gaffer told me all about your coming to the aid of little Samwise.” Bilbo closed his eyes and rested his chin on the top of Frodo’s curly head. “I am so proud of you, my dear boy, and I wouldn’t change you for all the riches in Middle Earth.”

Frodo swallowed, and felt more tears rolling down his cheeks. He buried his face against Bilbo’s chest and put his arms around his beloved uncle.

“And I certainly was not angry with you, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo continued. “But regardless, there is nothing—do you hear me?—nothing that could make me regret adopting you.”

Lifting his head slowly, Frodo peered up at Bilbo and saw such sympathy, love, and compassion in his uncle’s face that he could hardly bear to look.

“It is terribly important that you understand, my boy,” Bilbo said. “There is nothing that you could possibly do to make me want to send you back if you didn’t want to go. Not even if you broke every dish in Bag End.”

A laugh escaped Frodo at this thought.

“I am delighted beyond description to have you living here with me, lad. But there is another thing that I fear you do not yet understand,” said Bilbo slowly. “When I adopted you, I became your—well—your guardian, I daresay. When something upsets you, you mustn’t try to keep it from me, dear boy. I know you grew accustomed to keeping your own counsel at Brandy Hall, but now you have me, and it is my responsibility—and privilege—to take care of you and worry about you. Will you try to remember that, lad?”

“I will try, Uncle,” Frodo whispered. He paused, and then continued shyly: “It would help if you reminded me often, though.”

Bilbo smiled. “That I can certainly do, my dear boy. After all, we must both do our best if we are to convince the neighbours that an old bachelor like me is fit to raise a hobbit lad.”

Frodo smiled back, and it was the slow, sweet smile whose absence Bilbo had regretted this past week.

“I suppose I ought to tell you about the Sackville-Bagginses, Frodo,” Bilbo said eventually.

“I wish you would, Uncle,” Frodo replied, looking up. “Why were they so cross with me? And what was Lotho going on about?”

Bilbo sighed and explained briefly about inheritance and greed as well as he could to an innocent twenty-three-year-old child.

“So—so I’m going to inherit your money then, Uncle Bilbo?” asked Frodo, looking puzzled.

“Well, yes, lad,” Bilbo said, surprised. “I didn’t realize no one had told you that.”

“But I don’t care if I’m rich, Uncle, as long as I get to live with you!” protested Frodo. “Why couldn’t Master Otho inherit your money anyway?”

Bilbo looked at his heir in astonishment. “Well...” he said slowly, completely at a loss as to how to proceed. “Look at it another way: I want you to have my things, Frodo-lad, and not Otho. I couldn’t bear to think of those dreadful people in possession of Bag End.”

“Oh,” Frodo said thoughtfully. “I think I understand.”

“I truly never thought Lobelia would be so odious,” said Bilbo. “I dearly regret not protecting you from her better.”

Frodo hugged Bilbo again. “I’m sorry, too, Uncle. I should have told you before.”

“Why don’t you lie down, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo said at length. “You look exhausted, and I’m sure you’ll feel better after we ice those bruises.”

Frodo paused to consider the suggestion, and then nodded. He was tired, after hardly sleeping last night. And if he was lying down, he wouldn’t have to move his aching body anymore. Frodo allowed Bilbo to pull a clean nightshirt over his head. He manoeuvred out of his trousers while Bilbo turned down the sheets, and then crawled gratefully into bed.

“I’ll be back with the ice, dear boy,” said Bilbo softly.

Frodo struggled to keep his eyes open for the next few minutes. He was losing the battle when Bilbo reappeared in the doorway, bearing a small bag of ice wrapped in a cloth.

“Look what I found in the kitchen!” Bilbo said cheerfully, his brown eyes twinkling. He stepped forward to reveal Sam standing behind him. “Samwise has generously agreed to keep you company for a bit, Frodo-lad, while I make a start on our Yule supper,” said Bilbo.

Sam stepped inside hesitantly as Bilbo arranged the ice carefully on Frodo’s abdomen. The old hobbit’s expression darkened briefly when he caught sight of the bruises again, but he shook it off and motioned Sam forward. “I’ll be in the kitchen, lads, but I’ll come back and check on you before luncheon.”

Frodo nodded and turned his attention to the eleven-year-old hobbit standing awkwardly beside the bed.

“I-I’m right sorry I broke my promise, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said finally. He took a deep breath and plunged on. “But I ain’t sorry that Master Bilbo found out.” Sam looked up, his gaze half-defiant, half-hopeful.

Frodo sighed, forgetting his exhaustion for the moment. “Please, Sam, I’m the one who ought to apologize. It wasn’t fair at all to ask that promise of you in the first place.”

Sam smiled in relief. “I’m right glad you’re not angry, sir,” the younger child said. “I was real worried ‘bout you.”

Frodo looked at Sam for a moment, wondering what he had done to deserve such a friend. “Come and sit with me on the bed, Sam,” Frodo invited finally.

“I can’t do that, sir!” squawked a scandalized Sam. “Sit on your bed?”

“Why not, Sam?” asked Frodo with a slight smile. “I seem to recall you thinking it was all right for you to sit under my bed, that day I first moved in.”

Samwise laughed despite himself. “You’ve got me there, sir.” The younger lad clambered up shyly beside Frodo, and met his eyes earnestly. “But if you decide later on that it’s oversteppin’ my bounds, Mr. Frodo, you must tell me right away!”

“I’ll be sure to let you know,” Frodo said, smiling tiredly at the little boy’s reticence. “Now sit back against the headboard here, Master Samwise. You’re making me nervous!”

“All right, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said agreeably, and scooted back away from the foot of the bed. When he was leaning comfortably against the headboard, Sam looked down at Frodo stretched out beside him. “How do you feel, sir?” he asked softly.

Frodo shifted his gaze to look up at Sam. “Better than before, in more ways than one.” He shifted the bag of ice on his stomach up to rest on his ribcage. “Do you want me to tell you a story, Sam?”

Sam hesitated, looking at Frodo. “How ‘bout later, Mr. Frodo? Why don’t you just lie quiet for a bit.”

“All right,” Frodo said sleepily. He was dreadfully tired.

Sam slid down so that he was curled up beside Frodo. “Close your eyes, Mr. Frodo,” Sam murmured, and smiled when he saw Frodo comply. “Think o’ the nice Yule supper your uncle is getting ready for you, sir. When you wake up, you’ll smell it cooking, I expect.”

Sam kept his gentle brown eyes focused on Frodo’s pale face until long after the tweenager’s breathing had evened out in sleep. Eventually, Sam noticed that Frodo’s packet of ice had slid off his chest. Sam picked it up silently and laid it on the nightstand. He didn’t want Frodo to catch a chill, and anyway the ice was nearly all melted. Sam laid back down beside the older lad and closed his eyes. Soon after, he joined Frodo in sleep.

Some time later, Frodo found that Sam was gone and Bilbo was sitting in a chair near the bed, smiling at him.

“Did you have a good sleep, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo asked.

“Oh—yes!” replied Frodo, stretching tentatively. He felt quite refreshed, as though a weight he’d grown used to bearing had suddenly been lifted. And his bruises seemed to ache a little less after being iced, just as Bilbo had promised. “Is it time for luncheon?”

Bilbo’s smile broadened. “I’m afraid you slept clean through luncheon, dear boy. Not to mention afternoon tea. I sent Samwise home for his supper almost an hour ago.”

Frodo stared at his uncle, amazed. “It’s time for supper?” he said dumbly.

Bilbo laughed out loud at the expression on his nephew’s face. “Best thing for you, lad, sleeping all day! But now that you’re awake, you must be hungry.”

“Starving,” agreed Frodo. He had always been a little on the thin side, but there had never been much wrong with his appetite.

Bilbo ruffled Frodo’s dark curls and stood up. “Why don’t I bring our plates in here? You’ll be more comfortable, I think.”

Frodo nodded gratefully. He didn’t fancy another painful walk out to the kitchen.

Bilbo went out and returned quickly with two plates laden with good food. There was turkey and ham, sweet potato, beans, applesauce, and a rich brown gravy. The first supper of Yule was typically an intimate meal, just for family to share, and the fare was not fancy. Frodo thought he had never tasted more delicious food.

When they had finished ‘filling in the corners,’ Bilbo took away their plates and brought back more ice for Frodo’s bruises.

“Just once more before you go back to sleep, lad,” he explained.

“Sleep?” said Frodo in surprise. “I’m not tired! I just slept all day!”

Bilbo laughed. “All right, lad. Shall I read to you?” Frodo nodded eagerly.

A little later, when Frodo yawned despite himself, Bilbo looked at him sadly. “You’ve had a rough time of it these last few days, Frodo-lad, but I promise you’ll feel even better tomorrow.” Bilbo hesitated, and Frodo watched him curiously. “I might be gone when you awaken, depending how late you sleep, but I shan’t be long.”

“Where are you going, Uncle?” Frodo asked sleepily.

“I... have some matters to take care of. Nothing that you need concern yourself with, Frodo-lad.” Bilbo pulled the covers up to Frodo’s chin and turned down the lamp.

Frodo sighed contentedly and closed his eyes. Bilbo remained in his chair for a long moment, watching his young cousin.

“There is actually one thing that I do regret, involving your adoption, I mean,” Bilbo said softly.

“What’s that, Uncle?” Frodo asked sleepily.

“That I didn’t adopt you years ago.” Bilbo smoothed back an errant dark curl and placed a tender kiss on the lad’s forehead, then got up and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

10. Second Day of Yule

December 26, 1391

Bilbo did his best to be silent, but Frodo woke with a start just as he was about to close the door. Bilbo glanced back to find a pair of bleary blue eyes fixed on him.

“I’m sorry, dear boy, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bilbo said softly, stepping back into Frodo’s bedroom. “How are you feeling?”

“All right, I think. What is the time?” asked Frodo, trying to sit up in his disorientation. Bilbo crossed the room hastily and pushed his young cousin gently back down, then lifted the lad’s nightshirt to examine his bruises. Bilbo struggled to suppress the seething fury he felt whenever he saw those bruises or recalled what Lobelia and Otho had said to the lad; he didn’t want to upset Frodo again.

“Hush, lad, don’t get up,” Bilbo said soothingly. “It’s very early. I was just about to head off on my... errand.” He had no intention of mentioning the Sackville-Bagginses to the groggy child; he wanted Frodo to go back to sleep, after all. Bilbo gestured to a plate of dried fruit and sliced bread sitting on the chair beside Frodo’s bed, along with a small pot of honey and a cup of juice. “I brought you some food for breakfast, my boy, nothing that needs to be cooked. Go back to sleep, Frodo-lad. I just wanted you to have something to eat when you woke up.”

“Oh,” Frodo murmured sleepily. “How long will you be gone, Uncle Bilbo?”

“Not more than two or three hours, I should think,” Bilbo replied, smiling despite himself at the rumpled, disoriented hobbitling blinking blearily up at him. “I’ll ask one of the Gamgees to look in on you in an hour or two, all right, Frodo-lad?”

“Just as long as it isn’t Daisy,” Frodo mumbled into his pillow.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, not certain he had heard correctly. The old hobbit shrugged and tucked Frodo in again, then left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Bilbo paused for a moment outside Frodo’s room, smiling to himself as he thought of the lad in his care. These protective feelings he kept experiencing continued to catch the old hobbit by surprise, although Hamfast had once assured him that this was a normal state of affairs for parents. It was at least comforting to think that there was a reasonable explanation for Bilbo’s desire to tear the Sackville-Bagginses limb from limb.

It was just past seven in the morning when a brisk knock was heard at the door of Number 3, Bagshot Row. Hamfast Gamgee put down his cup of tea, wondering who it could be. He wasn’t expecting anyone until seven-thirty, when he had arranged a ride for himself and Hamson down to Bywater with a neighbour who had a wagon. Hamfast was going to collect his Aunt Primrose; the ancient hobbit lady had been widowed last year and was coming to spend Yule with her Hobbiton relations.

Trying to stifle a surge of most un-hobbitlike curiosity, the Gaffer got to his feet and went to open the door.

“Why, Master Bilbo!” the Gaffer exclaimed. “Won’t you come in, sir?”

“Thank you, but I don’t mean to stop more than a minute,” Bilbo replied, stepping inside so Hamfast could shut out the chilly December morning. “I will be out for a few hours this morning, and I left Frodo alone. Could you or Bell possibly go up and check on him in an hour or so?”

“O’ course, sir, I’ll take care of it,” Hamfast said immediately, then hesitated. Samwise had come home the day before and told a little of what had happened between his master and his master’s heir. Sam had also told his appalled family that Lotho had given Frodo a proper beating, and the lad’s chest, stomach and back were black and blue. Hamfast studied his master carefully, wondering what he could appropriately ask. “Is Mr. Frodo well this mornin’, then, Master Bilbo?” he finally said.

Bilbo looked at him shrewdly. “I must thank you for your excellent advice the other day, Hamfast, although there was an unfortunate delay before I was astute enough to follow it. It turns out your suspicions about Lotho were well-founded.”

“I’m right sorry to hear that, sir,” said Hamfast.

“Frodo’s pretty uncomfortable yet, but I expect he’ll be recovered in a few more days,” Bilbo said heavily. “Anyway, tomorrow some of his favourite cousins are arriving. That ought to take the lad’s mind off his troubles.”

“Aye,” Hamfast agreed, then mentally went through what he would need to tell his wife. “’as Mr. Frodo eaten yet, sir?”

Bilbo looked mildly surprised at his gardener’s interest. “No, he was still asleep when I left, but I put enough cold food for first and second breakfasts in his room, so he won’t have to walk out to the kitchen and cook anything.” The old hobbit opened the door and took up his walking stick from where he’d laid it against the door frame. He gazed steadily at Hamfast. “Well, old friend, I’d best be off.”

“If I may ask, sir, where are ye headed?” Hobbits rarely travelled on the first two days of Yule, except for very particular reasons. Hamfast was thinking that if Bilbo was going toward Bywater, he could offer him a ride shortly. But when he looked back at Bilbo, he saw that the old hobbit’s mouth had set in a grim line, and his eyes had lost their habitual merry twinkle.

“I am going to have words with the Sackville-Bagginses,” Bilbo said.

“The lad is lucky to have you, sir,” Hamfast heard himself say, without meaning to say it aloud at all.

Bilbo blinked, but looked pleased by the compliment. “And I him,” the old hobbit said simply, and marched off down the road.

The Gaffer watched his master for a moment, then closed the door and went into the warm kitchen. Bell Gamgee was cleaning up the last of the first breakfast dishes. The children were playing by the hearth, with the exception of Hamson, who was outside watching for the neighbour’s wagon.

Bell looked up when he entered. “Was that Mr. Baggins I heard?” she asked.

“Aye,” replied Hamfast. “He’ll be out all mornin’ and wants someone to look in on Mr. Frodo in a bit.”

“Oh, aye,” Bell said with a smile. “And you’re askin’ me to do the lookin’ in, are ye?”

Hamfast smiled back at his wife. “Well, lass, after what Mr. Frodo did for our Sam, I’d say it’s the least we can do. The poor child is layin’ in his bed, so sore that Master had to leave his breakfast in his room for when ‘e wakes up.”

Bell looked concerned, but then smiled thoughtfully. “Why, Ham!” she exclaimed, in mock surprise. “I do believe you’re warmin’ up to the lad! I seem to recall a time when ye had your doubts about Mr. Frodo.”

The Gaffer looked down. His wife was quite correct, of course. He had judged the boy harshly, based on nothing more than Frodo’s coming from Buckland. But Hamfast was a just-minded hobbit, and he was willing to admit it when he’d been in the wrong. “Well,” Hamfast said slowly, “I’d say Mr. Frodo has shown his true nature, standin’ up for Sam and all. Master couldn’t’ve picked a more worthy heir.”

Bell gazed at her husband for a moment, then dried her hands on her apron and rested them lightly on his sturdy shoulders. “Well, I’ll tell you what, Ham,” she said, smiling. “I’ll do better than look in on Mr. Frodo. I’ll go up to Bag End and make the dear lad a proper breakfast!”

Hamfast stared at his wife, bewildered. “But Bell, Master said he left cold food in Mr. Frodo’s room.”

“Cold food!” Bell snorted disdainfully. “Nay, Ham, what the child needs is a nice, hot breakfast! Mr. Frodo’s a sight too thin for my liking, anyhow. I don’t mind havin’ a chance to put some meat on his bones!”

Hamfast laughed. “Aye, well, you know best, o’ course.”

“Ooh, can I come along and help you, Mum?” said a voice from the doorway. “Please? I promise I’ll be real good, honest!”

Bell and Hamfast turned to see their eldest daughter watching them hopefully.

“Well, I suppose it couldn’t do no harm, Daisy,” Bell sighed. “And I could use your help.”

“All right then, but you make sure an’ mind your manners, lass!” said Hamfast sternly.

“I will, Dad!” said Daisy innocently, gazing at her parents with round, bright eyes.

11. The Wrath of Mad Baggins

After putting away the second-breakfast dishes, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins closed the pantry door with a bump and flounced into the parlour, scowling. Of course, scowling was her habitual expression, so Otho went on puffing his pipe, unconcerned.

Lobelia took up the fire poker and gave the roaring blaze in the hearth a good jab. A few sparks floated up, and Lobelia settled in her favourite armchair, looking disdainfully at the fire poker. Really, they ought to have servants for such tasks, not to mention for the cooking and washing up, but they had none. Well, she supposed young Ted Sandyman was in their service, but only nominally. They often hired the simple-minded miller’s son for outdoor labour, but still, it wasn’t right at all that Lobelia should have to do her own cooking and cleaning.

And if that little upstart Bucklander wasn’t got rid of soon, the Sackville-Bagginses in all likelihood would never have any of the trappings a family of their station ought to have. Lobelia’s scowl deepened. As it was, they had borrowed far too much money over the years from that feeble old fool, Bilbo Baggins. She certainly didn’t enjoy being in debt to her eccentric cousin, but it had been necessary to maintain a respectable standard of living, after Otho had lost most of his parents’ fortune.

A step was heard in the hall then, and Lotho came into the parlour, all bundled up in his fine woollen cloak.

“I’m going out,” the tweenager said.

“Make sure and take Ted with you, Lotho-lad,” Otho said, looking up from his pipe to survey his strapping young son with approval. “We don’t want that nasty Bucklander bothering you again.”

Lotho grinned at his father. “Don’t worry, Pop. He won’t!”

“Well, soon we’ll be rid of that brat, like as not,” Lobelia reassured, nodding at her son’s courage in the face of another possible meeting with that vile Bucklander. “Mad Baggins will ship him back where he belongs, no doubt, after the things I’ve been whispering in his ear. And perhaps he already has!”

All three hobbits were considerably cheered by this thought, knowing it would mean Otho would inherit Bag End and all the ill-gotten riches therein.

“Don’t forget your scarf, darling!” Lobelia called after Lotho, as the tween headed for the front door. “We mustn’t have you catching a chill!”

“Yes, Ma,” said Lotho, smirking at his mother’s back. Just as he was pulling his scarf off its hook, someone knocked on the door.

Lobelia immediately leaned across the side of her chair to peer out the window. “Why, it’s old Mad Baggins himself!” she exclaimed. “He must be coming to tell us what a dreadful mistake he made, adopting that troublesome brat, and that he’s reinstated Otho as his heir!”

Otho grinned and put down his pipe, and all three Sackville-Bagginses went to answer the door. Lobelia ended up in front and reached for the doorknob, hissing to her husband and son, “Remember to look sympathetic! Don’t remind him that we told him so!” Otho and Lotho nodded as Lobelia pulled the door open.

“Why, Cousin Bilbo!” she exclaimed, in what she assumed was a sweet voice; it actually made her visitor want to gag, but that was beside the point. “What a pleasant surprise. Do come in!” Lobelia stepped back to allow Bilbo to enter the foyer.

Bilbo came inside, but the fierce expression on his face gave all three Sackville-Bagginses pause. Lobelia involuntarily took a step back. The feeble old fool wasn’t looking particularly feeble today. Or foolish, for that matter.

“You’re to cease meddling with my heir at once, do I make myself quite clear?” said Bilbo.

“Meddling?” gasped Lobelia. “What in heavens do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” Bilbo replied icily.

Lobelia had a sudden sinking feeling that this conversation was not going to go her way at all. Bilbo focused his scorching gaze on her, and Lobelia’s suspicions were most powerfully confirmed with his next words.

“You’ve been attempting to make me doubt Frodo as my choice of heir, and you’ve been trying to make Frodo doubt my regard for him,” Bilbo went on. “Well, I have come to tell you that your deplorable scheming has failed. I know Frodo a great deal better than you understand, and I will never give that boy up.”

Lobelia paled at Bilbo’s words, and all thoughts of sweet conciliation deserted her. “How dare you!” she shrieked.

“Now see here!” Otho cried indignantly. “We Sackville-Bagginses are respectable hobbits!”

“Do respectable hobbits offer violence to younger children?” Bilbo thundered.

“I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Lobelia angrily. Lotho suddenly went pale, and Bilbo’s eyes raked him contemptuously.

“You beat my nephew and then told your parents he’d insulted you, is that it, boy?” Bilbo asked dryly. Lotho glared back defiantly, but said nothing.

“He did no such thing!” cried Lobelia, outraged. The idea of her precious Lotho behaving so... crudely. “What nerve you have, accusing him!”

“I have no interest in discussion,” Bilbo said, in that same maddeningly quiet voice. “I came to tell you the consequences of your actions.”

“Consequences?” Lobelia repeated incredulously.

“I have just been to see my attorney, Lobelia,” Bilbo said calmly. “I have changed my will. Because of your reprehensible treatment of my nephew, none of you will inherit a thing now.”

All three gasped in shock. Among hobbits, it was customary to leave some amount to all relations, even those not named as major beneficiaries. For a wealthy hobbit such as Bilbo, even these small inheritances would be significant. “You can’t do that!” shouted Otho angrily.

“I can, and I have,” Bilbo replied. “However, I have an offer to make.”

Lobelia turned away in disgust. “What could you possibly offer, after insulting us so dreadfully?” Lobelia sniffed.

“Simply this: as long as all three of you behave civilly to my nephew...” Bilbo paused “...I will refrain from calling in every debt you owe me.”

Lobelia was too furious to speak, but Otho’s jaw dropped. “You—you wouldn’t—but that would ruin us!” he shouted.

“I have no doubt it would,” Bilbo said, smiling grimly. “At least to your way of thinking. You would likely be forced to move to a less affluent hole, anyway.” He gestured to the rich fixtures and fine draperies that adorned the walls of Sack Top.

Lobelia scowled ferociously at Bilbo, but she was forced to admit they were beaten. She had never imagined that Bilbo would be so low as to use what amounted to blackmail, in her mind at least. Well, there didn’t seem to be any chance of Otho’s being named heir now, so they must make the best of it. Lobelia decided they could be civil to the impudent little monster, if that would let them keep what they had.

“Very well, we accept your offer.” Lobelia shuddered with bitter resentment. She had never hated that Buckland child as much as she did at this moment.

“Excellent,” said Bilbo. “Then there is only one more thing I must insist that you do.”

“And what’s that?” spat Otho. He knew as well as Lobelia did that Bilbo had them at his mercy.

“You must punish Lotho for beating my nephew,” Bilbo replied. “And it must be a suitable punishment!”

Lobelia’s mouth twitched angrily, but she miraculously held her tongue. The battle between wanting to spoil her son and wanting to placate the wealthy cousin who held so much over their heads was evident on her scowling face for several long moments. Finally, she turned to her son. “Lotho—no supper for you tonight. And—” Lobelia screwed up her face as if she were tasting a lemon “—and you must help Ted with the chores for the next fortnight!”

Lotho looked aghast at this pronouncement. “But, Ma—” the youth began. Lobelia could hardly bear it. He had never received such a harsh punishment in all his young life.

“No buts,” Lobelia snapped, hating herself for capitulating, but hating Bilbo even more. She turned back to glower at Bilbo. “There, will that do?”

Bilbo seemed to consider Lotho’s reaction for a moment, but finally nodded. “That will suffice,” he said. “But see that you carry it out. I shall have means of knowing if you do or not.” The old hobbit nodded curtly and started to turn toward the door, but suddenly he halted and glared icily at Lotho. “I want you to remember, boy, that whether your parents believe me or not, I know exactly what you did.” Bilbo stepped forward and Lotho cowered back against the wall, shrinking from the fury in Bilbo’s face. “If you ever harm Frodo again, I’ll see that you regret it the rest of your life.” Bilbo glared at the tween a moment longer before turning abruptly on his heel and stalking out the door.

Silence reigned in the hall for several long moments before Lobelia screeched in wordless rage and frustration. Lotho scampered off to his room, sensing that now would not be a good time to irk his parents, and Otho stomped back to his chair in the parlour. He put his pipe back in his mouth, but his teeth were clenched so hard that the tip of the stem broke off in his mouth. Otho spat it out in disgust.

Once out on the road again, Bilbo paused and drew a deep breath. His heart was pounding in his ears. It had been an excellent performance, though. He had no idea what he could possibly do to make Lotho miserable for the rest of his life, but he had struck terror into the little beast’s heart, and that was what mattered. And Lobelia and Otho would never be pleasant to Frodo, of course, but now they knew there was no hope of convincing Bilbo to give up his new heir, and they would return to being no more offensive than usual. They might even be frightened enough to be civil to the boy for a while, hopefully until Frodo was a little older and better able to handle them.

Bilbo swallowed and took another deep breath. It had been an excellent performance. So excellent, in fact, that Bilbo had almost frightened himself. That certainly hadn’t been part of his plan, but the confrontation had recalled his feelings when he’d first seen the bruised body of the child in his care, not to mention the wretched story that had come out of Frodo afterward. Did that mean it hadn’t been a performance at all? Bilbo didn’t know.

12. Breakfast

Frodo opened his eyes slowly, wondering why he felt so marvellous. He lay there for awhile, looking at the patterns made by the sunlight coming in through the crack in the curtains, before he remembered the reason for his present lack of anxiety.

In his slowly waking mind, Frodo went over the events of yesterday, especially the kind things Bilbo had said to him. He flushed a little, remembering. Bilbo didn’t want to send him back; Bilbo didn’t think he was too much trouble; Bilbo wanted to take care of him. He didn’t understand why Bilbo was so devoted to him, but he had never had any reason to doubt Bilbo’s word.

Frodo stretched a little, and decided with relief that he wasn’t too sore to move. The tweenager pushed his blankets down to his waist and propped his back against the headboard so he could sit up slightly. His stomach told him it was well past time for second breakfast. Frodo remembered Uncle Bilbo saying something about food by the bed, and he quickly discovered the plate sitting on the chair within easy reach, covered by a napkin.

Frodo’s stomach growled, and he reached over stiffly to pull off the napkin, drop it on the floor, and seize a piece of fruit.

At that moment, however, someone knocked on the door. Frodo drew back, startled, but before he could answer, his visitor opened the door and walked into his bedroom.

Naturally, it had to be Daisy Gamgee. Frodo gave a squeak of alarm and hastened to drop his fruit and pull the blankets up to his chin. He stared at the intruder, watching warily for the slightest sign of giggling. He didn’t know what he would do when that happened, though. Daisy was blocking the only exit. And he didn’t want to emerge from bed wearing only his nightshirt.

Undaunted, Daisy walked forward, proudly bearing a breakfast tray, as Frodo belatedly noticed. She halted beside his bed and said very properly, “Here’s your breakfast, Mr. Frodo!” Daisy set the tray on the bed beside the astonished boy and clasped her hands behind her back. “Will ye be needin’ anything else, sir?” she asked formally.

“N-no, no thank you,” Frodo replied, without looking at the tray. He couldn’t stop to wonder why Daisy Gamgee was bringing him breakfast in bed, because his mind was busy thinking that it would be even harder to escape now, with that breakfast tray in the way.

Daisy nodded, evidently pleased with herself, and walked sedately back to the door. When she was safely on the other side of the threshold, she grinned at him finally and closed the door behind her with a flourish. Just as Frodo was breathing a sigh of relief, he heard scampering feet and a flurry of giggling which faded slowly as Daisy ran off down the hall.

Frodo lay there for awhile, trying to overcome the humiliation of being seen in his nightshirt by a girl, of all things, before he noticed the delicious smells that were coming from the tray. The tweenager slowly emerged from his blankets to sniff the air inquisitively.

Finally looking at the tray, Frodo was delighted to discover a mound of fluffy scrambled eggs, a plate of bacon and sausage, well-buttered toast triangles, and a stack of fried potato wedges. This was far more appealing fare to a growing hobbit lad than the cold fruit and bread that Bilbo had left him. Without bothering to think any further on the matter, Frodo began demolishing his breakfast.

A few minutes later, another knock sounded at the door. Frodo paused warily with a piece of half-chewed bacon in his mouth, but no one barged in uninvited this time.

“Ah, come in?” Frodo said after a moment, swallowing his bacon hastily.

The door opened to reveal Bell Gamgee, but thankfully no sign of Daisy.

“Good mornin’, Mr. Frodo,” Bell said with a warm smile. “I’m dreadful sorry about Daisy. She was supposed to wait for me. How’s your breakfast?” She shifted the plate that Bilbo had left on the chair and sat down comfortably.

“Oh, wonderful!” Frodo exclaimed rapturously. “Thank you, Mrs. Gamgee!”

“You’re quite welcome, lad,” Bell said, laughing at the child’s wonder. “Mr. Bilbo oughta be back right soon. He asked me to look in on you while he was out.”

Frodo eyed Mrs. Gamgee shrewdly. “Uncle Bilbo didn’t ask you to make me breakfast, did he, ma’am?”

“Well, no,” admitted Bell. “That was my idea. A growin’ lad needs a proper breakfast!” She smiled at Frodo fondly.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gamgee,” Frodo said again, shyly. “I hope you didn’t go to any trouble.”

“Nonsense,” said Bell, looking at him seriously. “After what ye did to help our Sam with Mr. Lotho...” She trailed off. “Well, it’s the least I could do. We’re all mighty grateful, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo had no idea what to say in response to this extraordinary statement, so he remained silent.

Bell got to her feet. “I’d best leave you to finish your breakfast, young master,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “And don’t worry; I’ll keep Daisy away so ye can relax!”

Frodo coloured slightly, but Bell just laughed and closed the door behind her.

Once he got over his embarrassment, Frodo finished his delectable breakfast quickly and settled back down. He wanted to get up and get dressed, but he knew he would need help, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask Mrs. Gamgee. Frodo lay staring up at the ceiling contentedly. Bilbo would be home soon. Bilbo wanted him here. Frodo felt so completely happy at this moment that it seemed preposterous to imagine that he could one day be unhappy again.

Bilbo climbed the steps to Bag End adroitly. He was a little startled to see Bell Gamgee and little Daisy emerge from the green door just ahead of him and hurry down the walkway. Bell saw him and waved.

“Thank you kindly for looking in on my boy,” Bilbo called.

“You’re very welcome, sir!” replied Bell cheerfully. “I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Bilbo, but I made Mr. Frodo some hot breakfast.”

“Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed, surprised. “Well, thank you indeed! That was very kind of you.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Bell. Daisy looked slightly abashed, as though she had recently been rebuked for something.

“Good day, Miss Daisy!” Bilbo greeted the little girl as they passed.

“Sir,” Daisy answered politely, with a sweet, innocent smile.

Bilbo smiled to himself as he hung up his cloak in the foyer. What a charming lass that was, a perfect angel. Moments later he was knocking on Frodo’s door.

“Come in!” Frodo called.

Bilbo went into his cousin’s room and sat on the edge of the bed. “Well, how are you feeling this morning, dear boy?” he asked, scanning the boy quickly. He seemed pale but relaxed.

“Pretty well, Uncle,” Frodo replied. “I’d like to get up and dress today, if you’ll help me. I’m still a little sore.”

“I’m not at all surprised, lad,” Bilbo said. He looked at Frodo’s face searchingly, but saw no trace of the previous tension. Frodo was looking back at him, azure eyes sparkling eagerly. “Well, I’ll get out your clean clothes, then!” Bilbo said finally, pleased with what he saw.

“How was your errand, Uncle?” Frodo asked politely as Bilbo moved to the clothes cupboard.

“Oh... it went very well indeed, lad.” Bilbo smiled to himself, recalling the priceless expressions on the S.-B.’s faces when he’d threatened to call in their debts. “The result was quite satisfactory.” Bilbo helped the child dress, and then together they walked slowly out to the sitting room, where Bilbo built a good fire and settled Frodo on the couch.

“Merry will be here tomorrow, won’t he?” Frodo said suddenly. Bilbo had just chosen a book to read to his nephew.

“That’s right, Frodo-lad,” replied Bilbo, sitting down beside the boy. “Tomorrow is the twenty-seventh.”

Frodo smiled. “I can hardly wait!” he said.

Bilbo laughed and ruffled his ward’s dark curls. “Well then, let’s see if we can distract you with a few stories, eh?”

13. No Yule Would Be Merry Without Pippin’ Hot Food

December 27, 1391

Frodo woke early the next morning to discover that it was “snowing taters and oatmeal,” as the saying went in Hobbiton. This was good news for young hobbits, of course, but Frodo was old enough to be concerned about his many relations on the road today.

Esmeralda, Saradoc, and Merry were due to arrive in a few hours from Buckland; and Paladin and Eglantine Took were expected with their four children as well, from Tookland. Frodo hoped the heavy snowfall wouldn’t slow any of them down.

Frodo got out of bed carefully, mindful of his healing bruises. He decided he could dress himself today, and he did, albeit at a slower rate than normal. He could hardly wait to see Merry again; it had been nearly a month since he had moved away from Brandy Hall. He was looking forward to seeing his Took relations, as well; he had not seen the future Thain or his wife, Eglantine, since their last visit to Brandy Hall. And he hadn’t seen Paladin’s and Eglantine’s children since his last visit to Great Smials, when he was very young.

There were three lasses and one lad now, Frodo had been given to understand. All were younger than him, the eldest being seventeen, and the boy was not even two years old yet, which was unfortunate. He could hardly expect the little Took lad to be very interesting. But no matter; there was still Merry. Frodo didn’t hold much expectation that the Took lasses would be any fun to play with, given that they were of the same gender as Daisy Gamgee. But Frodo was an optimistic lad, and he could hope at least that they were not given to incessant giggling.

Frodo completed his morning preparations in the bathroom, then walked to the kitchen. He noticed that he still held himself a little stiffly when walking, but being able to walk with reasonable ease was still a vast improvement over the agonizing locomotion he had endured the last few days.

Pushing the kitchen door open silently, Frodo paused on the threshold for a moment and smiled. He could see the snow still swirling outside through the small round window above the counter, but the kitchen was cozy and warm, with a fire crackling merrily on the hearth, and the lamp on the table burning brightly. Best of all, in the tweenager’s eyes, Bilbo was sitting at the table, smoking his pipe and studying one of those maps he had drawn for that mysterious book of his.

Several covered dishes rested on the table, but the plate in front of Bilbo looked unused. There was another place set at the table; next to Bilbo, at Frodo’s customary seat. Frodo continued to gaze silently at the scene before him for several long moments. Frodo was not a child to take things for granted; he cherished moments like this, when he was reminded how fortunate a hobbit he was to have Uncle Bilbo taking care of him.

Bilbo glanced at the door at that moment to see his young cousin standing in the doorway, and the old hobbit’s brown eyes lit up. “Frodo-lad!” he exclaimed. “It is good to see you up and about again. Come, I’ve kept your breakfast hot for you.”

Frodo smiled again and walked to the table, but instead of sitting down immediately, he reached over and hugged Uncle Bilbo.

Bilbo was caught by surprise, but he instinctively returned the hug. “Well, what brought this on, my dear boy?” Bilbo said, smiling into the cerulean blue eyes that were gazing up at him.

Frodo just smiled back and put his arms around Bilbo’s neck, hugging tightly. “Nothing special, Uncle,” the boy said softly, and took his own seat at the table.

The old hobbit reached over to squeeze Frodo’s hand. “I’m glad to see you too, lad,” he said gruffly.

Frodo grinned down at his plate, relieved that his uncle understood him, and Bilbo began lifting lids off serving dishes.

“Here we are, some nice fresh scones,” said Bilbo, helping Frodo to three. “And fried eggs with mushrooms, just the way you like them.”

A few hours later, two Men were sitting in their house, wondering what they should have for supper. Of course, these were no ordinary Men; they were Rangers of the North, wild and mysterious.

“Tell me again what we’re like, Ranger Frodomir!” said Ranger Samomir excitedly.

Ranger Frodomir grinned and shifted position in the hastily-erected snowhole. “Well, we’re awfully big, Ranger Samomir. Maybe twice as tall as your Gaffer!”

Samomir gasped in delight. “And our hair?” asked the breathless Man.

“Mmm... brown, I should think,” Ranger Frodomir said thoughtfully. “But it grows all over our faces, and it hangs down straight!”

“Straight,” repeated Ranger Samomir incredulously, running a grubby hand over his own smooth cheek. “I tell ye sir, if your Mr. Bilbo hadn’t told ye all this himself, I’d never’ve believed it!”

“Sam, you’re a Ranger,” Frodo whispered patiently.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” exclaimed Samomir. “Right then, Ranger Frodomir. Ye were sayin’ before that we live in... houses?”

“That’s right, Samomir,” said Frodomir with a smile, putting an arm around the younger Man’s shoulders. “We live in a big House, made of wood, and with two floors, one on top of the other.”

“One on top o’ the other?” breathed Samomir. “How does such a thing stay standin’?” Hobbits had been building structures aboveground for centuries, but in Hobbiton at least there were no buildings with two storeys.

“Well...” Frodo paused. He didn’t really know. Bilbo had only begun teaching him about Men in the last fortnight. Frodo only recalled a few things, such as that several of the Men who had featured prominently in the history he’d read had names ending in ‘mir.’ Of course, he didn’t want to spoil the game for Samwise, so he would have to invent a few things. “Magic.” Frodomir said finally. “We Men... ah... hire wizards to build our houses!”

Samomir’s eyes grew round with wonder. “This surely is a good game, Mr. Frodo. One o’ your best!”

“Thank you, Ranger Samomir,” Frodo said with a grin. “Now, shall we go hunting for our supper?”

“Oh, yes sir, Ranger Frodomir! What’ll we use? Bows and arrows?”

“Yes, I think so,” Frodomir said thoughtfully. He glanced around their little burrow for inspiration, finally scooping up a handful of snow. He made a snowball and handed it to Sam. “Here is your bow and arrow, Ranger Samomir,” the older lad intoned solemnly.

Samomir grinned and stood up, looking about for potential prey. No obvious targets presented themselves, and Samomir glanced down at his companion. “Who’ll play the part of our supper, Ranger Frodomir, sir?”

Frodomir got to his feet too, and looked around in disappointment. “Well, Halfred would be ideal, since I owe him one,” he said with a mischievous smile.

Samomir laughed. “He’s out with my Gaffer today, sir, an’ that’s a fact, I’m sorry to say. They’re readying stalls for your cousins’ ponies over in Farmer Cotton’s stable.”

“Ah well,” Frodomir sighed. “We’ll have plenty more hobbitlings to play with soon enough, I should think.”

Sam looked up at Frodo a little apprehensively. “Do... do ye reckon you’ll still want me hangin’ about when your cousins come, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo glanced down at Sam in surprise. “Well, of course I do, Sam! I was hoping you’d stay and meet them. Especially Merry. I mean, if you want to, of course...” Frodo trailed off uncertainly. “If you’d rather go home, I don’t mind, truly.”

“I’d like ta stay if you’re sure it’s all right, sir,” Sam said, smiling shyly. “My mum knows where I am; she won’t be worried or nothin’.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo said.

Samwise looked as if he didn’t quite believe Frodo would want him around once his cousins arrived, but he shrugged and smiled finally.

Frodo laughed and clambered stiffly over the wall of their snowhole. “Now let’s go inside! We can’t get any further in this game without something to hunt, so we might as well go in and get warm.” His half-healed bruises were starting to ache even though he was warmly dressed; and Bilbo had not given permission for any running about outside, only quiet play.

The children went inside and Bilbo fixed them some hot tea. All three sat comfortably in the warm sitting room. Bilbo had finished all the supper preparations, and everything was in the oven, ready to bake.

“Don’t worry, lad, they’ll be here soon,” Bilbo said with a smile when he saw his ward glance out the window at the softly falling snow for the eighth time.

“Yes, Uncle.” Frodo finished his tea and set the cup down on the floor, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. Sam was curled up at one end of the couch, gazing into the fire. It wasn’t often that Frodo and Bilbo could coax Sam to be at his ease inside Bag End, for although Hamfast had assured his youngest son that it was acceptable to sit with the masters when they invited him to, Sam still felt awkward in such situations.

The three hobbits had been sitting in companionable silence for some time when a loud knock at the front door startled them all. Frodo sat up with a grin, and Bilbo ruffled his dark curls affectionately as he went to answer the door. “That’s likely them, my boy,” Bilbo said cheerfully.

Frodo and Sam followed close behind, and Bilbo flung open the door to reveal a grinning pair of hobbits.

“Esmeralda! Saradoc! How delightful!” Bilbo cried, motioning them to come into the foyer.

Over Saradoc’s shoulder, Frodo could see the Gaffer and Halfred making ready to drive his relatives’ pony and sleigh off to the stables. Frodo hung back, feeling a little shy, until Saradoc lowered the blanket-wrapped bundle he’d been carrying; the corner of the blanket fell away, and Frodo’s nine-year-old cousin Merry was revealed.

“Frodo!” Merry exclaimed, struggling to disentangle himself. Esmeralda hurried to help the little boy out of his blankets and winter cloak, and then Merry rushed forward and hugged Frodo around the legs as the adults greeted each other.

“Merry!” Frodo said softly, and planted a kiss on the top of that curly brown head. “I can’t believe you’re truly here!”

Merry laughed delightedly and hopped up and down in his excitement, and then he noticed Samwise standing apologetically against the wall. “Who’s that, Frodo?” the child asked curiously.

Frodo smiled. “This is my friend, Samwise Gamgee,” he said. “Sam, this is Meriadoc Brandybuck.” Merry and Sam looked at each other, and Bilbo introduced Sam to Esmeralda and Saradoc, each of whom greeted the gardener’s son warmly.

Esmeralda came forward to hug Frodo tightly. “It’s wonderful to see you again, dear,” she said, but drew back in surprise when Frodo gasped in pain. “Frodo, are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, Aunt Esmeralda,” Frodo replied, wondering what he should say about his injuries. Esmeralda looked concerned.

Bilbo squeezed Frodo’s shoulder reassuringly. “I will tell you about it a little later,” the old hobbit said to Esmeralda and Saradoc. “Right, then, let’s get your things inside, eh?”

Saradoc went out to bring in the bags that Halfred had left by the door. Bilbo took a few and began leading the group toward the bedrooms.

“I have the small guest room ready for you, and Merry can stay with Frodo,” Bilbo said to Esmeralda and Saradoc. “I’m putting Paladin and Eglantine with little Peregrin in the middle guest room, and the three lasses in the large one, the old nursery.”

Merry clapped delightedly when it was announced that he would bunk with his adored older cousin, and the adults laughed and continued talking amongst themselves.

Merry continued to regard Samwise with interest, much to the latter’s discomfort. But the two lads were close in age, and Merry’s curiosity was quite natural.

“Why does Frodo call you ‘Sam’?” Merry asked as they trailed along behind Frodo.

“It’s short for Samwise,” Sam answered, then hesitated. “You can call me Sam, Mr. Meriadoc.”

Merry smiled brightly. “And you can call me Merry! How old are you, Sam?”

“I’m nearly twelve, Mr. Merry,” Sam replied.

“Oh. I’m only nine-and-a-half,” Merry said. “But Frodo’s real old; he’s twenty-three.” This elicited a snort from Frodo, walking just ahead of them, and a smile from Sam. “Where do you live, Sam?” went on the irrepressible Merry.

“Just down the hill, sir.”

“Will you come back and play with us tomorrow?” Merry asked hopefully.

“I will, if Mr. Frodo asks me to,” answered Sam, sounding a little surprised. In truth, he had expected a colder reception from Frodo’s Buckland playmate; his Gaffer had cautioned him that Frodo and his cousin would not want to include Sam in their fun.

“Oh, good!” exclaimed Merry. “We’ll have loads of fun! Frodo always thinks up good games.”

“Aye,” Sam admitted.

Frodo smiled to himself, listening to Merry and Sam’s conversation. He had been hoping the two of them would get along. He almost didn’t notice another knock sounding at the front door.

Bilbo grinned at Frodo. “Why don’t you answer the door this time, Frodo-lad?”

Frodo went back to the front door with Merry and Sam in tow. When he opened the door, he saw a jovial-looking gentlehobbit and a smiling lady, with three small lasses peering around the lady’s skirts.

“Well, well!” exclaimed the gentlehobbit, surveying Frodo with a twinkle in his eye. “This must be Frodo Baggins! I hardly knew you, you’ve gotten so big. I don’t think you’ve met little Peregrin, here.” He motioned to the small bundle his wife carried in her arms.

Frodo couldn’t help smiling at the cheerful couple. “Please come in,” he said. “Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda have just arrived, and Uncle Bilbo’s showing them to their room.”

Paladin and Eglantine came in with their brood, and there was a flurry of activity as wraps were removed and hung up, Sam was introduced, and Merry was greeted. The three lasses, Pearl, Pimpernel, and Pervinca, were wild with excitement and chattering volubly, and Frodo found himself thinking it was very fortunate that the old nursery where they would be staying was halfway across Bag End from his own room.

Bilbo, Saradoc, and Esmeralda returned to the foyer in time to take part in the excitement, and greetings and introductions echoed through the halls of Bag End once again. Everyone was shown to their rooms, all bags were put in the appropriate places, and the chattering crowd of hobbits adjourned to the parlour. Hamson came to the door then, to take Sam home for supper.

“Thank you for staying so long,” Frodo said. “And I do hope you’ll come back and play with us tomorrow, Sam.”

“I will, Mr. Frodo, if my Gaffer doesn’t need me at home,” Sam answered, looking pleased, and departed with his eldest brother.

Frodo closed the door and went back to the parlour. Merry was sitting on Saradoc’s knee; Bilbo was in an armchair near the hearth.

“Esmeralda insisted on getting supper set up,” Bilbo said when he saw Frodo. “She’ll be ready for us in a few minutes.”

Frodo nodded and settled on the footstool in front of Bilbo’s chair to try and listen to the conversation. The lad was soon distracted, however, by the sight of Eglantine, across the room, setting little Peregrin down on the floor.

“He likes to be put down so he can run about,” Eglantine explained with a laugh. “He can walk, but he finds crawling much more to his liking.” And sure enough, the baby began to crawl along the floor at an alarming speed. Frodo watched with interest. He only vaguely remembered when Merry had been this young.

Peregrin paused near one of his sisters and began fingering the lace on her dress. “Pretty,” he murmured. When he had found out all he could with his fingers, the baby opened his mouth wide and prepared to gather more information. Before Peregrin could quite get that fascinating bit of lace into his mouth, Pimpernel laughed and kissed the giggling child’s curly head, then set him back down on the floor and aimed him toward Bilbo and Frodo.

Peregrin seemed to take the change in stride and was soon motoring rapidly across the room. He stopped directly in front of Frodo and looked up at his cousin with wide green eyes.

“Hullo, baby,” Frodo said softly. He reached down cautiously and picked Peregrin up, settling him comfortably on his lap. The baby and Frodo studied each other for a few moments. Frodo marvelled at the tiny pink mouth, now falling open in concentration, the green eyes that seemed to shine with intelligence, and the silky light brown curls that were already long enough to hang over small, delicately pointed ears.

Peregrin’s eyes roamed all over Frodo’s face, and he reached one chubby hand forward to slide lightly over Frodo’s forehead and nose. “Pretty,” the baby said again, and the adults laughed. Frodo looked up to see that everyone else had stopped their conversation to watch.

He felt Bilbo, still seated behind him, reach out and squeeze his shoulder. “He seems to like you, Frodo-lad,” said Bilbo with a chuckle.

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo replied, and smiled at the baby on his lap. “I think I should teach you some new words though, what do you say, Peregrin?”

Peregrin giggled and tried to grab a lock of Frodo’s curly hair.

14. Stories

December 29, 1391

After supper on the fifth day of Yule, Frodo, Merry, and Sam (who had been persuaded by Bilbo to stay to dinner) returned to Frodo’s room to relax and let the food settle before they ventured forth for the dessert Bilbo had promised (applesauce).

The three hobbit lads sprawled on the floor near Frodo’s bed. Frodo leaned against the wall with Peregrin sitting on his lap and playing with the ties on his waistcoat. Sam and Merry sat on the floor near the bed, facing him.

Sam wordlessly handed Frodo a pillow from his bed, and the older lad put it gratefully behind his back. He hadn’t told Merry about his trouble with Lotho, and he wasn’t going to. Frodo was satisfied that Bilbo had taken care of that, which greatly eased Frodo’s worry.  He looked up to meet the eyes of the two lads watching him eagerly. The oldest boy smiled, thinking of a story the others might like.

“Have I ever told either of you the tale of the... Slime Creature of Doom?” Frodo asked, dropping his voice ominously at the end. The story, out of one of the storybooks Bilbo had once read him, did not actually use the ‘of Doom’ part, but Frodo thought it sounded more dramatic.

Merry and Sam shook their heads.

“Tell us, Cousin Frodo!” Merry said, clasping his hands gleefully. Sam sat up straighter, knowing that Mr. Frodo always told good stories.

“The tale is called ‘Meladore and the Slime Creature,’” Frodo began. “‘The Slime Creature of Doom,’ that is. It is about a Man who lived a long time ago-”

“How long ago?” interrupted Merry.

“Hmm... twelve centuries ago,” Frodo replied. He had no idea if he was anywhere close, or if the story was even based on truth, but he knew from his days at Brandy Hall that Merry wouldn’t be satisfied with such a vague answer.

“Twelve centuries!” Sam exclaimed softly, looking awed at the thought of so much time. Merry nodded, impressed.

“At any rate, the Man’s name was Meladore,” Frodo continued. “He was a poor Man of no consequence, but eventually he became renowned all over Middle Earth, and even won a third of a kingdom, all because he was kind to animals.”

Sam looked doubtful at this, but Merry said, “When does the Slime Creature come in, Frodo?”

“Don’t worry, Merry-lad,” said Frodo, trying not to laugh at the beseeching expression on his little cousin’s face. “It’s coming. It’ll come a lot faster if you don’t interrupt anymore, though.”

Merry sat back and pressed his lips together firmly, nodding for Frodo to continue.

“All right,” Frodo said, leaning back against the wall and absently pulling little Peregrin back before the baby could get a good taste of the foot of Frodo’s bureau. Peregrin whimpered in frustration, finally cramming almost an entire tiny fist into his pink mouth, and Merry reached out to hold the baby. Being held and petted by his Buckland cousin seemed to soothe the child, and Peregrin soon relaxed drowsily on Merry’s lap, forgetting for the moment how enjoyable it was to suck on one’s fingers.

“Now, where was I? Oh, yes. You see, Sam, when Meladore was a child, he found a snake on the road, quite dead. Instead of kicking the snake into a field, he picked it up and gave it a respectable funeral. When he’d finished, he discovered that the snake had been a mother snake; there were little motherless snakes waiting nearby.”

“Oh, no!” breathed Samwise.

“Meladore had pity on the babies, so he took them home and reared them himself. When the little snakes grew up, they were very grateful for Meladore’s kindness, and they licked his ears so clean that he could understand all the languages of animals; crawling, flying, and swimming animals, he could understand them all.

“Over the years, Meladore listened to animal speech, and he grew very wise, and used his secret knowledge to accomplish many seemingly impossible feats. Tales of his cleverness spread far and wide, and one day the king of a great city sent for Meladore.

“Meladore went to the king, and the king told him that an evil wizard had put a curse on his daughter, and turned her into a dreadful slimy creature that could live only in a small pond just outside the castle.

“‘If you can save her, Meladore,’ the king said, ‘I will grant you anything you wish.’

“‘I will recover your daughter if you give me one third of your kingdom,’ Meladore replied. The king thought this was far too much, and Meladore went away. Time passed, and tales began to spread of the dreadful slime creature... of doom... that lived in the pond. It was hideous to look upon; it was only the size of a small dog, perhaps, but with slimy, spongy green skin and long, spindly arms.”

Merry and Sam both shuddered. Peregrin, feeling restless, clambered down from Merry’s lap and began crawling around the bed near which Merry and Sam were sprawled, pausing only to examine the fabric of Frodo’s quilt.

“Now, the king kept secret the fact that the slime creature was his daughter, but folks in the kingdom began to say that the creature went round at night wrapping its slimy arms around people’s necks and dragging them into its pond to drown, and many wanted to kill the thing. Of course, the king wouldn’t have it, because he was still hoping someone’d come along and cure his daughter. But the rumours continued, and the king was soon desperate enough to send for Meladore again.

“Meladore came back, and the king reluctantly said to him, ‘I will give you one third of my kingdom if you can cure my daughter.’ Meladore agreed, and that night he went out and sat by the pond. He sat all night, but discovered nothing useful. The second night he sat outside as well, and again heard nothing. By the third day, the king was beginning to doubt Meladore, and told him he had one more chance, and he’d be put to death if he failed.”

Sam and Merry gasped. Frodo couldn’t see Peregrin, but the edge of the quilt on his bed had a patch of fabric that appeared to be wrinkled, as though by very small, grubby hands, as well as a small wet spot, bearing mute testimony to another of the baby’s tasting endeavours. Frodo shook his head. They would have to find that applesauce for Peregrin once the story was over.

“What happened, Mr. Frodo?” Sam whispered.

Frodo smiled. “Well, Meladore sat out by the pond again that night, but this time, he was so tired from staying awake those other nights, that he soon fell asleep in the grass. What saved him was that he heard talking in the middle of the night, and woke up. With all his knowledge, he soon realized that it was two mice whose voices he heard. Meladore lay very still and kept his eyes closed, so that the mice wouldn’t realize he was awake.

“‘It’s such a shame about the princess,’ said one mouse.

“‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘I was there, in the woods, the day the king offended that dreadful wizard. The king was out hunting a stag, and accidentally shot a stray arrow into the wizard’s campsite. The arrow punctured the wizard’s best wineskin, and all the wine ran out, so the wizard cursed the princess.’

“‘Is there no way to restore the lass?’ asked the first mouse.

“‘Well, yes,’ answered the second mouse. ‘All the king has to do is pour a bottle of his best wine over the slime creature, ah, the slime creature of doom, and the princess will be restored. ‘Tis a shame the king doesn’t know that. But of course, no one ever asks me. I’m just a mouse.’

“When he had heard this, Meladore got up and went to wake the king. ‘You must pour a bottle of your best wine over the princess,’ Meladore told him. The king was bewildered, but did as Meladore asked. Just as the mouse had said, a lovely girl appeared in place of the slime creature, and the king was overjoyed. In gratitude, he not only gave one third of his kingdom to Meladore, he also gave Meladore the princess’ hand in marriage. And they lived happily ever after, to the end of their days.”

The lads sat in silence for several long moments. “That was a good story, Frodo,” Merry said meditatively.

“Oh!” exclaimed Sam suddenly, eyes widening in alarm. The gardener’s son sat petrified, as though afraid to move.

“Sam?” Frodo asked. “What’s the matter?”

“M-Mr. Frodo, sir, I think the slime creature’s gnawin’ at my neck!”

Frodo leaned forward to peer over Sam’s shoulder, and was confronted with a pair of sparkling green eyes.

Merry and Sam both looked up in surprise when Frodo burst into laughter. Peregrin had somehow crawled behind Sam and pulled himself upright against the side of Frodo’s bed, for the baby now had his wee hands clutched onto the back of Sam’s collar. Peregrin was peering interestedly up at Sam’s curly golden-brown hair, but the baby also appeared to be drooling freely down the back of Sam’s neck.

“I am dreadfully sorry, Samwise!” Frodo exclaimed, but he could hardly speak for laughing. “I don’t think Uncle Paladin will like it very much if he catches you calling his son a slime creature, though!”

Merry snorted with laughter and reached over to retrieve the wayward Peregrin. “Oh, Sam!” Merry shrieked helplessly. “You oughta see your face right now!”

Sam grinned sheepishly, but the embarrassed hobbit couldn’t help joining in the laughter.

Merry bounced Peregrin on his knee, and the baby shrieked in delight, then began trying to stuff a fistful of Merry’s curls into his tiny mouth. “Now, really, Sam,” Merry admonished, with an impish grin, “if you’re gonna give pet names to the future Thain of Great Smials, you might make it one we can say in front of his parents!”

“I-I’d never presume such, Mr. Merry!” protested Sam, before he realized Merry was only teasing.

“You’re quite right, Merry-lad,” mused Frodo. “We really must think of a more appropriate pet name for little Peregrin here. We’ll have to work on that.” Frodo pulled out his handkerchief and briskly set to wiping Peregrin’s saliva off the back of Sam’s neck.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam gasped in embarrassment. “You—that tickles, sir!—you don’t need to go doin’ that!”

“Stop wiggling,” Frodo commanded, and Sam tried to sit still. “And just think, Sam-” Frodo paused to suppress a chortle “-one day, when little Peregrin is Thain, you’ll be able to tell folks that the Thain once drooled on you!”

Peals of laughter echoed down the hall outside Frodo’s room in response to this pronouncement, followed eventually by a breathless, “Oh, you won’t go tellin’ anyone about this, will you sirs?”

“Will we, Cousin Frodo?” Merry turned an inquiring eye toward the older lad, for in all things mischief-related, Merry deferred to the greater experience of Frodo.

“Hmm...” said Frodo thoughtfully. “Don’t worry, Sam. We shan’t tell anyone at present.”

Sam’s relieved sigh and Merry’s disappointed look were both cut short by Frodo’s next words.

“No, I think we’d much better wait for a more opportune time,” Frodo said, azure eyes sparkling mischievously, “such as Sam’s wedding day. In front of his bride.”

Merry and Sam both burst into giggles at this idea, perhaps because thoughts of embarrassment at one’s marriage were not terribly frightening to a pair of small hobbit lads.

“Or—or on Peregrin’s wedding day?” Merry put in between snickers, and all three lads grinned down at the babe gurgling happily on the floor, clutching Frodo’s big toe.

“Good idea, Merry,” Frodo praised.

Merry beamed, and Sam looked down at his hands to hide the smirk on his round face. Frodo noticed then that Peregrin nearly had Frodo’s toe in his wee pink mouth, so he picked the baby up hastily.

“I think now might be a fine time to fetch that applesauce Uncle Bilbo promised us,” Frodo exclaimed. “What do you say?”

Merry nodded eagerly, Sam smiled bashfully, and Peregrin scrunched up his tiny red face in anger over being denied the chance to get Frodo’s toe in his mouth.

“We can bring it back here,” Frodo said as the children began to walk to the kitchen. “I’m sure Uncle Bilbo won’t mind. And maybe we’ll think of a game on the way!”

15. Applesauce

Bilbo was sitting comfortably with Saradoc, Esmeralda, Paladin, and Eglantine in the sitting room.  Frodo, Merry, and Sam had gone off to Frodo’s room to play perhaps half an hour ago. Eglantine had cajoled them into minding Peregrin for awhile, and Bilbo wondered idly what three small lads plus an infant might find to amuse themselves. Pearl, Pimpernel, and Pervinca had withdrawn to their room, leaving only the adults.

“It is wonderful to see him like this,” Esmeralda was saying.

“Indeed?” said Bilbo, perplexed. They were talking about Frodo; Bilbo had been telling his cousins about the incident with Lotho, and his concern over Frodo’s adjustment to living in Hobbiton.

“Truly, Bilbo,” said Saradoc. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the lad so happy. You’ve clearly been wonderful for him, just as I said you would be.”

“I am glad to hear you say that,” Bilbo said, smiling sadly. “It was not so, for awhile there.”

Eglantine leaned forward and placed a hand over Bilbo’s, her cheerful face etched with concern. “Now really, Bilbo, from what you’ve told us, I’d say you’ve handled things just fine.”

Bilbo sighed and looked down. “I cannot bear the thought that I allowed those beastly S.-B.’s to torment the poor boy. And then I didn’t even notice.  I really wondered if I was up to the task, if I hadn’t been too presumptuous in bringing Frodo to live with me.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Paladin. “You’ve done very well by him. And as for any difficulties the two of you encounter, I would venture to say that the love you bear each other will see things through, as it did in this case.”

Esmeralda smiled at her old friend. “Truly, you have nothing to fear,” she said softly. “You have our full confidence-” Esmeralda gestured to the other hobbits in the room, all of whom nodded in agreement, “-and what’s more, you had Drogo’s and Primula’s,” she finished quietly.

“Thank you,” the old hobbit said sincerely. “That means a great deal to me. There are still those, I fear, who think me a senile old fool, for proposing to raise a tweenager.”

Paladin laughed. “Since when have such folks mattered?” he asked cheerfully. “You’ve always done what you thought best, and never mind what others thought, and I for one have always admired you for it.”

“And I!” said Eglantine jovially. “We may not share your sense of adventure, Bilbo Baggins, but you may rest assured we know you’re no fool.”

Bilbo couldn’t help smiling; these four hobbits were some of his favourite cousins, and really the only adult relations he had who didn’t think he was cracked.

“Oh, this has been a merry Yule,” said Esmeralda warmly. She lifted the teapot that had been sitting on a side table. “Now who wants more tea?”

Several minutes later, three small hobbit lads and one babe were sitting on the kitchen floor, beneath the kitchen table in fact. It had been decided by mutual consensus that hiding under the table might lend itself to a really excellent game, and the children were loathe to simply fetch the applesauce without getting a bit of fun out of it.

All four were quiet for awhile, listening to the drone of adult voices in the adjacent sitting room. Well, three were quiet and listening. The fourth was enjoying a taste of Merry’s trouser leg hem.

“Let’s sneak into the cellar and get the applesauce!” Frodo proposed in a whisper.

“Sneak?” whispered Merry with a frown. “Why? Uncle Bilbo said we could have it!”

“Yes, but it’ll be more fun if we sneak!” insisted Frodo.

Merry grinned suddenly, his brown eyes lighting up. “Oh, goody! What do you say, Sam?”

“I’m with ye,” whispered Sam, smiling shyly.

“Right then,” Frodo whispered. “What shall we play at?”

“Let’s be Men!” suggested Merry, wriggling in excitement. “Or Elves!” Merry was still taken with the real life adventure Frodo had experienced last spring, when he had been lost in the Buckland woods and gotten rescued by a Man and two Elves.

“Hmm... what do you think, Sam?” Frodo asked.

Samwise dropped his eyes and declined to state a preference, but Frodo smiled quietly, blue eyes dancing as he looked at the plainly-dressed hobbit lad crouched beside him. Frodo knew quite well of Sam’s fascination with the fair folk.

“Elves it is, then,” Frodo decided. Merry nodded enthusiastically, and Sam clapped both pudgy brown hands over his own mouth to muffle a delighted giggle. “We must descend into the – ah – Dwarf stronghold, and bring back a jar of... emeralds.”

“The applesauce, Frodo?” whispered Merry, and Frodo nodded.

The three young elves made their way swiftly and silently across the kitchen, with Frodo carrying Peregrin. They entered the smaller pantry and crept stealthily down the long passageway to the cellar. Frodo felt around for the lamp and soon had it lit.

“Now we’re in the Dwarfish cavern, lads,” Frodo whispered. “Look for the emeralds, quickly, before the Dwarves come back!”

Sam shivered in delight and began looking at each jar on the shelves. Merry searched too, while Frodo struggled to keep his hair out of Peregrin’s tiny fists.

“This looks like the... emeralds, sir!” Sam finally said in a whisper.

Frodo took down the jar and examined the label. The contents of the jar certainly looked like applesauce, but the label said “Rushock Gold?” Merry frowned in puzzlement, but Sam’s eyes lit up in recognition.

“That’s a kind of apple, sir!” Sam whispered. “My Gaffer taught me all the different kinds!”

“What’s this other one?” Frodo asked curiously, noticing another, similar-looking jar on the same shelf. “Marish Pippin,” he read aloud.

“A pippin is another kind of apple, sir,” Sam said. “That one must ‘a come from over in Marish.”

“We’ll take them both,” Frodo decided. “We can try each one. We’ll just have to be sure we leave plenty for the lasses.”

The three elves took their loot and crept back to Frodo’s room.  As soon as they were out again in the light of the kitchen, they could see that the two types of applesauce looked slightly different; the Rushock Gold was lighter in colour.

Once they were seated on the floor of Frodo’s room again, and Merry had nearly opened one of the jars, Frodo realized what they had forgotten. “Dishes and spoons!” he said in exasperation.

“I’ll go, sir,” Samwise offered, but Frodo shook his curly head.

“Thank you, Sam, but you don’t know where everything is. We’ll all go,” Frodo decided. “But let’s leave Peregrin here; he’ll be all right for a minute.”

Frodo laid the baby gently on the blue rug in the centre of the floor, and the three lads hurried back to the kitchen. They had forgotten their silent Elf game by this point, which was perhaps fortunate because it would have been very difficult for three hobbitlings to get out dishes and spoons without a few clatters and giggles.

After more than two days in a smial full of young children, the adults in the sitting room took no notice of the disruption, and the lads made it back to Frodo’s room without mishap.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Merry, who happened to be first through the door.

“What is it, Merry-lad?” Frodo said, coming in behind him. “Oh, no!” the oldest lad gasped in dismay.

Sam squeezed in behind Frodo, and his hazel eyes widened at the sight before him. Peregrin Took was lying on Frodo’s rug right where they’d left him, but one of the jars of applesauce was open beside him. Most of the contents appeared to be coating the young Took’s face, hands, and hair, but some of it must have got inside him, for the baby was licking his tiny pink upper lip in satisfaction.

No one said anything for a very long time, even when a gurgling Peregrin crawled over to the group of astonished lads by the door. “Good!” the baby said, looking up at Frodo with shining green eyes.

“I’ll bet it was!” said a bemused Frodo.

Sam bent down to examine the remaining contents of the nearly empty jar. “It looks like Mr. Peregrin is a pippin eater,” the gardener’s son commented.

“That was the jar I started opening,” Merry said sadly.

“Do you think Master Bilbo will be very angry, sir?” Sam asked Frodo apprehensively.

Frodo smiled slightly. “No, I do not think he will be angry, Samwise. I imagine they’ll all have a good laugh at our expense, though.”

“Well, that can’t be helped,” Merry said matter-of-factly. “And at least we still have the other jar, though I expect we’ll have to share it with the lasses.”

Everyone’s face fell at this thought. Well, everyone’s except Peregrin’s. The baby was still giggling and grasping at the hem of Frodo’s trousers with sticky hands.

Frodo sighed and bent to pick Peregrin up. “Let’s take him to the bathroom and clean him up a bit, anyway,” Frodo said.

“Well, one good thing came of this!” Merry said suddenly. The other two looked at him questioningly, and Merry smiled. “Sam came up with a fine pet name for Peregrin!”

“Mr. Merry, I never-” Sam exclaimed.

“‘Pippin’ is much better than ‘slime creature of doom,’ wouldn’t you say, Sam?” Merry continued cheerfully. Sam went very red.

“Far more suitable,” Frodo agreed. “Perhaps ‘slime creature of doom’ is more descriptive, but at least we can say ‘Pippin’ in front of his parents! What do you say, Sam?” Frodo grinned at his friend mischievously.

“Aye, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, with a reluctant smile. He knew when to surrender gracefully, he did. “How do you do, Mr. Pippin?” Sam said self-consciously, bowing to the baby and making the other two laugh in delight. Pippin squealed and tried to grab Sam’s hair.

“See?” said Merry. “He likes it!”

16. Endings and Beginnings

December 31, 1391

In the midst of a dark, wintry forest, perilously close to the cave of a ferocious, universally-feared dragon, a small blue tent was pitched. Three brave Rangers of the North sat inside, debating how best to proceed in slaying the beast.

“Ouch! You’re sitting on my foot, Meromir!” exclaimed the tallest Man.

“Oh, sorry, Frodomir,” said Meromir, “but really, this tent of ours just isn’t large enough.”

“Shall I wait outside, sirs?” offered Samomir solicitously.

“No!” cried the other two rangers in unison. A brief flurry of activity followed, as the three Men struggled to find comfortable places to sit.

“Well, what about this dragon, then?” asked Meromir once the dust had settled.

“Will we be slayin’ the beast with bows and arrows again, Mr. Frodomir?” inquired Samomir.

That valiant ranger considered briefly, then shook his curly head. “Nay, Samomir, then we’d have to go outside again and make snowballs. Let’s just use swords.”

“Aye,” Samomir agreed. “Then where might we be findin’ our swords, sir?”

Frodomir lifted the flap of the tent and all three gazed out through the opening, looking for inspiration in the faint light outside.

“I suppose those writing pencils on your desk will do,” said Meromir at length.

Frodomir allowed the tent flap to drop back into place. “All right,” he said. “Our swords are in the campsite, but they’re sitting on that—ah—rock over there. We’ll have to go out and retrieve them, without waking the beast.”

The other rangers nodded eagerly.

“I’m ready, Frodomir,” Meromir whispered theatrically.

“Me too, sir,” added Samomir breathlessly.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock at Frodo’s bedroom door. “Lads? Are you in here?” Bilbo could be heard calling from the other side.

“Oh, no! It’s—ah—Bilroc, the fire breathing dragon!” Frodo whispered.

Merry and Sam both giggled, and Frodo raised his voice to call, “We’re here, Uncle! You can come in.” The door opened, and the children could see a squat hobbit-shape silhouetted in the light from the hall.

“Why in Middle Earth is it so dark in here?” wondered Bilbo.

“’Cause we’re in a dark, wintry forest, Uncle Bilbo,” Merry informed him. Bilbo lit the lamp on Frodo’s nightstand and peered at the makeshift tent in the centre of the room.

“Will you stay to supper tonight, Samwise?” asked Bilbo when he caught sight of the three lads under the blanket. “Our visitors are going home tomorrow, and I’m sure they’d all love to see you one last time.”

“I’m expected at home for supper, sir, but thankee kindly,” Sam replied, flushing slightly in embarrassment as he often did when directly addressed by his father’s master. “This is the last day o’ my Aunt Primrose’s visit, too, Mr. Baggins.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Bilbo said cheerfully. “Well, Frodo-lad, why don’t you and Merry walk Sam home, and then come back and wash up for supper.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo replied. He was already taking down the blanket that had been hung over two chairs. Bilbo nodded, winked at Merry, and left the room.

Sam hastily took the makeshift tent from Frodo and spread it carefully back over the older lad’s bed.

“Well, I guess this is it,” Merry said sadly. “The end of a brilliant Yule!”

“You’ve got a few hours yet, Mr. Merry,” Sam put in helpfully.

“That’s not what I meant, Sam,” said Merry impatiently. “You have to go home now, and tomorrow I’ll have to go home, and it won’t be the same!”

“Don’t worry yourself, Merry-lad,” Frodo said easily. “I’ll still be here, and Sam will be here, and you’ll come back to visit again.”

“Do you really think so, Cousin Frodo?”

“Well, of course! And when you’re older, you’ll probably come by yourself, any time you like. And perhaps you’ll bring Pippin along!” Pippin’s parents and sisters had all been quite delighted with the baby’s new pet name, once Frodo had related to them the applesauce incident, and now everyone in the smial used the name freely.

Merry smirked at this thought. “I shall certainly come back, but Pippin is only a baby, Frodo,” he said matter-of-factly.

“The condition is temporary, Cousin,” Frodo laughed. “You didn’t stay a baby forever, did you? Now let’s get Sam home before he misses his supper.”

The three lads put on their jackets and cloaks and went outside. It was a beautiful evening; the sun was just setting, and the air was crisp and cold. They walked down the path in companionable silence, bare feet crunching softly in the light dusting of snow. They passed through the gate, which Frodo closed after them, and continued down to Bagshot Row.

Quite unexpectedly, snow came flying at the three lads from behind. Sam yelped in surprise as he felt a handful of cold wetness soaking into his honey-coloured curls. Frodo received a snowball to the neck that slid down the back of his shirt, and a third snowball hit Merry squarely in the back.

The startled hobbits whirled around just in time to see three heads wearing identical pink hoods disappear over the crest of the Hill. They heard laughing and squealing as the Took lasses retreated down the other side of Bag End.

“Heavens!” said Merry, sounding impressed. “They’re good!”

“Yes,” said Frodo thoughtfully. “Pity it wouldn’t be proper to fight back.” Frodo hastily shook out the back of his jacket and shirt, and sighed in relief when he felt the wet projectile slide down his spine and out from beneath his shirt. “But at least they have the decency to run away when they want to do their giggling,” he muttered, half to himself.

Sam rubbed the snow out of his hair vigorously, still looking a little shocked, and the three continued on their way. At Number 3, Bagshot Row, Halfred answered the door and thanked Frodo for bringing his brother home.

Merry and Frodo returned to Bag End alone, glancing around furtively in case their cousins had another surprise attack planned. They made it back to the smial unmolested, however, and were somewhat perplexed to find Pearl, Pimpernel, and Pervinca sitting all in a row at the dining table, smiling far more sweetly than was normal.

Pippin was sitting between Pervinca and Eglantine, and the baby squealed gleefully when Frodo and Merry appeared in the doorway. “Fwo!” he exclaimed happily.

“Hullo, Pippin!” Frodo said cheerfully. Frodo had taught Pippin to say his name, or at least part of his name, the day before, and was quite delighted with his success. At least he had cured Pippin of that extremely unfortunate habit of exclaiming ‘Pretty!’ whenever he caught sight of Frodo.

The lads took their seats across from Pearl and Pimpernel, and dinner proceeded cheerfully. Frodo was beginning to wish he had made an effort to get his girl cousins to join in some of the lads’ games; these lasses had turned out to be far more fun than he’d initially assumed.

Frodo leaned across the table toward Pearl. “Er, do you three want to play rangers and dragons with Merry and me after supper?” he asked quietly.

Pearl exchanged looks with Pimpernel, but before either could reply, Pervinca piped up unexpectedly. “I want to play with Fwodo!” the toddler exclaimed.

“Sure we will,” Pearl said finally, green eyes twinkling. Frodo tried not to show his surprise, and after dinner the five children trooped back to Frodo’s room to rebuild the tent.

Several hours later, everyone was relaxing in the sitting room, listening to one of Bilbo’s tales. The rangers-and-dragons game had gone well, with Pimpernel Took giving an excellent performance as Pimroc the Dragon. Pearl, Pimpernel, and Pervinca had all proven to have sufficient imagination, much to Frodo’s delight, and had participated fully in the game without the slightest trace of disdain.

“I do hate to interrupt the story,” Eglantine said, glancing significantly at the clock on the mantel.

“Oh, let them stay up another hour! It’s their last evening all together!” Paladin protested, turning from where he had been tossing his youngest daughter playfully in the air.

“Paladin, you spoil dreadfully any child you come in contact with,” said an exasperated Eglantine, but her stern words were gainsaid by an impish smile.

Paladin merely grinned back at his wife and set the giggling toddler on the floor. Pervinca leaped up immediately and twined her little arms around Paladin’s leg. “More, Da!” she pleaded.

Eglantine sighed resignedly and exchanged smirks with Esmeralda. “All right, another hour, then,” she said, to the delight of the children.

As Paladin bent down to oblige his young daughter, Bilbo was sitting in his favourite armchair, telling tales to the audience of little ones sitting at his feet. Frodo had heard this particular story before, but it was one of his favourites, and he listened attentively. Baby Pippin had no interest in the story, and was crawling from Merry to Pearl to Pimpernel to Frodo and back to Merry. Esmeralda and Eglantine were sitting on the couch, chattering away over their knitting, and Saradoc was dozing in the other armchair.

Frodo glanced at the mantel clock every few minutes, as did Merry, although Frodo was fairly certain that his nine-year-old cousin couldn’t read clocks yet. He supposed it made no difference; neither lad wanted the evening to come to an end.

But Pippin grew tired eventually and curled up on Merry’s lap, and when Pervinca fell asleep at Eglantine’s feet, the hobbit lady arched an eyebrow significantly at her husband.

“Well, at least they got to sit up late on their last evening,” Paladin said defensively. Bilbo’s story wound to a close then and all the children were herded to bed.

Frodo waited outside the large bathroom for the lasses to finish, and soon all three emerged and trooped off to their room, murmuring cheerful “good-nights” as they passed their cousin. Frodo washed up quickly and put on his nightshirt, then returned to his room to find Esmeralda just tucking Merry into bed. Frodo crawled in beside his cousin, and Esmeralda kissed both children goodnight and extinguished the lamp.

The lads lay quietly for awhile, and Frodo began to think Merry had fallen asleep already.

“Frodo?” Merry said suddenly.

“What is it, Merry-lad?” Frodo replied.

“Are you—are you glad you live here now?”

Frodo sighed, wondering how best to answer. “I do miss you, Merry,” he said, smiling in the darkness. “But I am pleased to live here with Uncle Bilbo, yes.”

Merry yawned. “That’s what Momma said,” he replied. “I’m glad it’s true.”

Frodo waited to see if Merry would say anything else, but the younger lad’s breathing soon evened out in sleep, and Frodo closed his eyes to follow suit.

January 1, 1392

In the grey dawn of morning, Frodo stood in the doorway with Bilbo, sleepily watching Hamson and Halfred Gamgee load two wagons with luggage as the Yule visitors prepared to depart.

The Took wagon was ready first, and the Tooks said good-by to their Buckland cousins before coming outside. Eglantine hugged Bilbo and Frodo and invited them both to Tookland any time they liked.

“Keep an eye on Bilbo, young hobbit,” Paladin said to Frodo with a wink.

“I will, Uncle Paladin,” Frodo replied, grinning. He had become very fond of his jovial Took uncle over the course of this brief visit. “And you keep both eyes on Pippin; he might swallow something worse than a whole jar of applesauce one of these days.”

Paladin laughed and ruffled Frodo’s dark curls fondly. “I’ll do that, lad.” The gentlehobbit focused kind grey eyes on his young cousin. “And do come and visit us sometime, Frodo.”

“I shall,” Frodo answered, and gave Paladin a quick hug. Pearl and Pimpernel came forward to hug Frodo good-by, before allowing their father to lift them into the sleigh. Little Pervinca stopped in front of Frodo then, reaching up with small, chubby arms. Frodo lifted her obligingly so she could hug him around the neck.

“Good-by, Fwodo!” she whispered.

“Be a good lass, Pervinca,” Frodo told her, before handing the toddler over to her mother.

“Everyone ready?” asked Paladin, standing beside the pony with Peregrin in his arms.

“All set, dear,” Eglantine replied from her seat in the sleigh.

Peregrin chose that moment to wail loudly. “Fwo!” the baby cried.

“I am sorry, young Pippin!” Paladin told his son. “You haven’t said good-by to your cousin yet, have you?” He brought the baby back to where Frodo was standing, and Frodo leaned forward to kiss the silky forehead. Pippin stared at Frodo with round green eyes.

“You’ll see me again, Pippin,” Frodo said softly. “I promise.” He knew he would miss his little cousin, but he forced himself to smile at the baby.

“Fwo,” Pippin said again, and reached one chubby hand forward as Paladin started to take him away. Frodo closed his eyes briefly and was startled to feel a tiny hand close tightly around his nose. “Pretty!” said the baby, casting back through his limited vocabulary and trotting out an old favourite.

Frodo started to laugh, but Pippin was still grasping his nose firmly, forcing the older lad to snort loudly instead. Pippin chortled with glee, and the Tooks’ visit ended on a cheerful note. The other wagon was ready then, and another round of good-bys was said.

“I hate saying good-by,” Merry grumbled to Frodo as he hugged his cousin tightly.

“As do I,” Frodo replied, and cast around for something to cheer up the younger lad. “But only think! I heard your parents talking, and it sounds as though you’ll be seeing a lot of little Pippin in the next few months.”

“Oh, yes,” Merry said, brightening. “We’re to spend a few weeks at Tookland in the spring.”

“Well then, the burden will no doubt be yours, since you’ll see Pippin far oftener than I shall!” Frodo exclaimed.

“What do you mean, Frodo?” asked Merry.

“Why, the burden of teaching young Pippin to make mischief, of course! Now I’ll admit he has decent sisters, but really, can we leave it all to them?”

Merry laughed. “No, indeed!” he said. “Don’t worry, cousin. I’ll make sure Pippin learns everything you taught me!”

The two cousins grinned at each other for a moment before Saradoc came to put Merry in the wagon. Frodo and Bilbo waved as the three Brandybucks set off.

For several moments after the two departing wagons had vanished into the foggy morning, an old hobbit and a tweenager stood silently on the front step of Bag End, each lost in his own thoughts.

“It’s a new year, my boy,” said Bilbo at length, clapping Frodo on the shoulder. “A time for new beginnings.”

 “I’ve already been given my new beginning, uncle,” Frodo said after a moment.

Bilbo gazed at his heir for a moment, then kissed the boy on top of his curly head. After a last glance out into the swirling grey mist, the old hobbit squeezed Frodo's shoulder and ushered him back into the warm hall of Bag End.

17. Forgiveness and Charity

The next few months passed agreeably for the residents of Bag End. The excitement of Yule died down soon enough, and Frodo settled into a comfortable routine. He resumed his lessons with Bilbo each morning, and fell to amusing himself each afternoon while Bilbo worked on his book. Sometimes they went out walking together, but more often Frodo took an apple and a good book and passed a few hours reading in the peaceful solitude of a nearby meadow or glade.

Frodo often played with the neighbourhood children, especially Folco Boffin and Fredegar (Fatty) Bolger, a cheerful pair of lads close to Frodo in age. Frodo missed the Gamgee boys, but Hamson and Halfred had gone to work for Farmer Cotton up the road as soon as the frosts ended, and in late March, Samwise began helping his father in Bag End’s garden.  Sam was twelve years old now and ready to learn a trade, according to the Gaffer. Frodo found it disquieting that Sam was right there in the garden, but not permitted to play with Frodo since the carefree winter days were over and there was work to be done. However, Frodo was well brought up and knew better than to hinder the Gamgees at work; he stayed discreetly out of their way as much as he could.

On this particular afternoon, which happened to be April 12, 1392, Sam was kneeling in the soft earth of Bag End’s front garden and staring in consternation at the little sprout in front of him. He was fairly certain it was a weed, but what if he was mistaken? This was only Sam’s third week apprenticed to the Gaffer, and he had never worked in the flower garden unsupervised before.

Sam had just finished pruning the rhododendron bush that grew under the parlour window, and his next task, which he was so reluctant to begin, was to weed the long flowerbed along the path. The Gaffer was out back working in the vegetable garden, but Sam did not want his father to find out what a ninny he had for a youngest son. He was old enough to make up his own mind; he shouldn’t be so hesitant. It looked like a weed, after all. The Gaffer had said this was a flowerbed, and the little green sprouts that grew along one side had no flowers on them, unlike the other plants in the bed. Sam sighed and began pulling up the little green sprouts.

Half an hour later, a small, grubby hobbitling sat in the grass beside a respectable pile of pulled-up plants. Sam looked at the pile in grim satisfaction. He had pulled up every one of the little weeds; he’d hated to do it, they were so small and delicate, but the Gaffer had insisted that weeds left to grow would crowd out the flowers and make them sickly.

Sam leaned over to study the pulled-up weeds. They each had a little round bottom that had been buried beneath the earth, but Sam had unearthed every one with some effort, taking care not to damage the delicate roots or slender leaves. He didn’t know why he had taken so much trouble for weeds, which would be disposed of, after all, but he liked the feeling of the green, living skin in his hands, and he was instinctively gentle.

Sam lay back in the grass to rest for a moment. The sky was overcast, and the air was cool and damp on his hot face. Gardening was hard work, he had discovered, but he loved the feel of the rich soil on his fingers and the smell of growing things all around him. He liked taking care of all the plants, but especially the flowers. Beautiful but fragile they were, flowers. They had to be well cared for and treated properly; neglected flowers would never show their lovely faces, never bring their richness and pleasure to the hobbits around them.

The front garden of Bag End was lovely. Sam surveyed with satisfaction the results of his father’s years of loving toil. The sandy-haired child had wanted to work in this garden almost as long as he could remember, and he was ecstatic to be allowed to help keep Bag End the envy of Hobbiton for his father’s master, who was now Sam’s master as well.

Hamfast Gamgee came around the side of the Hill then, and Sam stood to greet him.

“All finished then, are ye, Sam-lad?” the Gaffer asked.

“Yessir,” Samwise replied, stepping back so his father could inspect the flowerbed. The Gaffer’s brows drew together suddenly, and Sam came forward again to stand at his father’s side, watching anxiously as the frown deepened.

“Why, Samwise Gamgee!” Hamfast said in grim astonishment as he bent down for a closer look. “You’ve gone an’ pulled up all o’ Master Bilbo’s good begonia bulbs, you have!”

Sam gasped in dismay, feeling sick with horror at the sight of the neat pile he had made of uprooted plants. “I – I thought they were all weeds, Dad!” the wretched lad stuttered.

“Now then, child, there’s no call for cryin’,” Hamfast said gruffly as Sam’s wide hazel eyes filled with tears. “T’was an honest mistake. I’ll show ye the weeds again on the morrow.”

Sam nodded miserably.

“We’re about finished for the day, I think,” the Gaffer sighed. “I’ll have to replant all these bulbs afore we go, at any rate. Why don’t ye head round back an’ start pickin’ up the trash while I get to it, Sam-lad?”

Sam nodded again and trudged up the path to the vegetable garden on the back of the Hill. He began grabbing his father’s clippings off the ground and pushing them fiercely into the canvas bag they kept at hand for that purpose. Sam was normally the most good-natured of children, but at the moment he was in a shockingly foul mood.

The Gaffer found him a few minutes later and crouched down beside him. “Master Bilbo has asked that ye attend Mr. Frodo up to the mill to buy flour, Sam-lad,” Hamfast said quietly.

Sam looked up in surprise. “All right, Dad,” he said, and dusted off his grubby hands hastily.

Hamfast got to his feet. “I’m about finished out front, so when ye get back, come straight home for tea.”

Sam nodded and went around to the front door to wait for Frodo, who appeared promptly, still putting on his coat. Frodo gave Sam a sympathetic smile, which caused the latter to deduce that his master’s heir (and presumably his master) probably knew about Sam’s dreadful mistake and near-murder of the begonia bulbs.

“I’m glad your Gaffer let you come with me,” Frodo said as they walked down the path to the main road. The mill was perhaps a twenty minute walk away, in the opposite direction from town.

Sam only shrugged, still wallowing in his foul thoughts. He glanced up at the sky, noting with dissatisfaction that it looked like rain. It had rained a great deal the last few weeks, and the roads were muddy and aggravating.

“You’re glowering like a Cave Troll, Master Samwise,” Frodo said lightly.

Sam looked at the older lad in surprise, then returned his gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry, sir,” the child finally mumbled. “I just can’t stop thinkin’ about all them healthy begonias o’ Master Bagginses that I dug up, an’ all. I’m gonna be the worst gardener in Hobbiton, an’ that’s a fact.” Sam plunged his brown hands into his well-patched pockets, scowl deepening unconsciously.

“Well, best not to think on it. Your Gaffer said he could replant them, so there was no harm done.” Frodo answered, looking at the younger boy with concern. “Everyone has setbacks, Sam, but I’m sure you’ll be a splendid gardener one day, truly!”

“Thankee, Mr. Frodo,” Sam muttered politely, but he was far from convinced.

Frodo sighed, not seeming to know what to say, and the two lads lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. They arrived at the mill and turned back toward home after Frodo bought his flour. Sam carried the small bag without being asked, and Frodo said nothing. Indeed, the older lad didn’t dare protest; Sam’s round face bore an uncharacteristically fierce expression, although the younger boy was not aware of it.

They were nearly at the turnoff for the Hill when they spotted a figure some distance ahead, standing in the ditch at the side of the road.

Sam felt Frodo tense beside him. It was none other than Ted Sandyman, the miller’s son, with a small hand-drawn cart. Ted was likely returning home from making a delivery in town. His cart was clearly stuck fast in the mud at the side of the road, and Ted himself was muddy up to his trouser legs. As Frodo and Sam hesitated at the sight, Ted sneezed and wiped his nose hastily. Sam stared angrily. If he hadn’t known how Ted had helped Lotho Sackville-Baggins give Mr. Frodo a thrashing not four months ago, he might have felt almost sorry for Ted. Almost.

“Hey, there!” Ted called, looking at them hesitantly. “Could ye give me a hand with this old thing?”

Sam looked at Frodo, and was shocked to see the older lad’s frown slowly soften. Frodo started forward as if to help, but paused when Sam grabbed his sleeve.

“How can ye forgive him, Mr. Frodo?” said Sam indignantly. “After what he and Mr. Lotho did to ye an’ all!”

“Holding a grudge doesn’t do anybody any good, Sam,” Frodo said seriously. “And I don’t expect Lotho gave him much choice, anyhow.”

Sam glared furiously at the ground, refusing to meet Frodo’s steady gaze.

“Uncle Bilbo always tells me not to let things fester, Sam, and he’s right,” Frodo said finally. “He says that when you feel angry and bitter, you have a ferocious dragon tied to your foot, and you have to let it go or it’ll eat you right up. You’ll feel better if you forgive Ted, too. So come on and give us a hand, eh?”

Some part of Sam certainly knew that Frodo was giving advice that he would be wise to heed, but his foul mood overcame him for the moment and he stamped in frustration, glaring up at Frodo. “I won’t!” the incensed child exclaimed. “And ye oughtn’t to, either! Only a—a dim-witted Bucklander would do such a thing!”

Sam had thoughtlessly used the first taunt that came to mind, a fairly common one in Hobbiton, and it was only when the words had already flown out of his mouth that he recalled Frodo had come from Buckland. Sam flinched when he saw the surprise and hurt flash briefly through those expressive sapphire eyes, and wanted to say he hadn’t meant it, but his tongue seemed to have suddenly turned to dust, just a few moments too late.

Frodo didn’t speak for a moment, his expression pained, but then he sighed. “All right, Sam. Give me the flour and go on home to your tea. I’ll help Ted by myself.” Frodo plucked the sack of flour from Sam’s nerveless grasp and continued down the road toward Ted, who had been watching them apprehensively, unable to hear their conversation. Frodo didn’t look back, and was soon engaged in tugging at the stuck cart with a very relieved Ted. Sam had clearly been dismissed.

Not knowing what else to do, Sam turned aside onto the path up to the Hill and his hole in Bagshot Row. He felt numb and dreadful, and he was trembling. Sam shook his curly head, trying to hold back the tears that had sprung up suddenly. Surely it was a stranger who had just said those frightful things to Mr. Frodo? Shock and horror had replaced Sam’s foul mood by this time, and the tears spilled over when he thought of how hurt Frodo had looked when he sent Sam away. The wretched lad cried silently as he walked, until he came to an old stump that he liked to climb at the edge of the path, just out of sight of the Hill. Sam wiped his eyes with a grubby hand and clambered up to his favourite seat, wanting to calm down and think quietly for a few minutes.

When Hamfast had first brought Sam to work in the garden of Bag End, Sam had promised his Gaffer he would mind his manners perfectly around the masters, and bring his father no embarrassment. Sam had just been inexcusably rude to a hobbit who happened to be his dearest friend, not to mention his master’s heir. And Frodo’s forgiving nature, which Sam had just disparaged so unkindly, was the only thing that would avert the sort of trouble a less charitable gentlehobbit wouldn’t hesitate to stir up.

Frodo had been correct; an awfully big dragon was tied to Sam’s foot, and it had made him say and do dreadful things, when he wouldn’t let it go. He’d had no business questioning Frodo’s decision; Frodo was the one who had been wronged by Ted. If Frodo could forgive the other boy, then Sam certainly had no business holding a grudge.

Sam climbed soberly down from the stump. He would have to relate the entire shameful tale to his Gaffer, of course. Sam knew that his father would not change his mind about Sam’s helping in the garden merely because Sam had made a mistake in his weeding; but he wasn’t at all certain how the Gaffer would react when he heard about the childish fit of temper that had followed.

Sam paused at the edge of Bagshot Row and looked up toward Bag End. He would have to apologize to Frodo, certainly, but the prospect terrified him. What if Frodo wanted nothing more to do with him?

Deciding to act before his nerve deserted him, or worse, before Frodo returned home, Sam quickly darted past the path to Bagshot Row and continued up to the top of the Hill. He didn’t dare take any of the fine flowers in the garden, but wildflowers grew all over the Hill’s upper slopes, and Sam was able to gather a small bouquet of plain but sweet-smelling blooms in just a few minutes.

Sam hurried back to the front gate of Bag End and let himself in quietly. He crept around the side of the smial to Frodo’s window, and was relieved to see it was open a crack. Biting his lip, Sam grasped the flowers in one hand and slid them carefully onto the curved windowsill inside Frodo’s room. Once they were safely positioned, Sam exhaled deeply and ran back to Number 3, Bagshot Row. He had no doubt that Frodo would know they were from him; Sam always picked wildflowers when he was out walking with Frodo. But he hoped that Frodo would understand the flowers were his apology, because he did not know his letters and could not leave a note. He would not have known what to say in any case.

As it happened, the Gaffer did indeed allow Sam to continue in the fine garden of Bag End, although Hamfast’s disappointment at Sam’s behaviour was very difficult to bear. And so, early the next morning, Sam found himself once again in front of the long flowerbed by the path. He looked down at the neatly replanted begonia bulbs, and felt relieved that his mistake hadn’t done any lasting harm. The Gaffer suddenly recalled he had left his favourite spade down at Bagshot Row, and hurried off to retrieve it.

Left alone, Sam made his way back to Frodo’s window and peered cautiously inside. He could see that Frodo was still asleep; a dark, curly head was just visible resting on a pillow in the bed which sat below the round window. Sam began to look anxiously for any sign of his wildflowers.

Flowers were a common gift among hobbits, and thus there were standard responses to such a gift. The polite thing to do was at least to put the cut flowers in water. If the hobbit wished to preserve the gift, he would hang them up to dry. If he held the giver in very high esteem, he would hang the flowers from a high point in the room, such as a mantel or wall; the higher up the display site, the greater the importance of the giver. If the hobbit was offended by the gift, he would throw the blooms out into the garden, where they would die and return to the earth.

Looking quickly in the grass around his feet, Sam saw no sign of any hastily discarded wildflowers. Hardly daring to hope, he peered again into Frodo’s room, feeling very impolite. But he had to know. Even if Frodo wanted nothing more to do with Sam, he might possibly accept the apology and put the flowers in water. Was that a cup of water on the bureau? Yes, but no flowers in it. Hanging up to dry somewhere? That would suggest that Frodo still wanted to be friends, but Sam looked anyway. No flowers were drying on the desk, nor the nightstand... Sam lifted his eyes a little higher, feeling presumptuous. Nothing was hanging on the walls that he could see, except a few portraits.

Sam sighed. Perhaps he would never know what Frodo had done with the flowers. Certainly he would never find out unless Frodo told him. Sam started to turn away from the window, but then an odd shadow caught his eye. Sam craned his neck to peer at the ceiling, and nearly gasped out loud. There, hanging to dry from the centre of Frodo’s ceiling, and the highest point in the room, were Sam’s wildflowers.

The wide-eyed lad stared at that miraculous sight for many long moments. He felt light enough to float away. He had no idea why Frodo thought so highly of him, but the evidence was right there, undeniably pinned to the ceiling in the place of highest honour. Sam finally closed his mouth with a snap and went back to the front garden to wait for his father.

Sam spent the rest of the morning dutifully following the Gaffer around as he worked. The lad listened very attentively as his father named and presented the different weeds to his small son; Sam was determined to learn the bad from the good so that he would never again harm the dear flowers that he loved to care for.

18. Unexpected

April 18, 1392

Frodo gazed in wonder at the wide expanse of blue ground spread out beneath him, and the sky of mottled green and brown. A pair of hobbit feet standing on the sky entered his field of vision, and Frodo lowered his gaze to see an upside-down hobbit regarding him bemusedly. This hobbit had curly chestnut hair and grey eyes, and was frowning hugely. No, that was an upside-down smile.

“You’d better sit up, Frodo,” laughed Folco Boffin. “Your face is red as a cherry!”

Frodo began to swing back and forth a little, trying to build up momentum.

“Don’t fall on your head,” said another voice. “Whatever would we tell your uncle?” A second pair of feet had come into view, attached to a rather stocky hobbit (even by hobbit standards) with light brown curls and mischievous brown eyes.

“You could tell him my head hit the sky, Fatty,” Frodo said to the second hobbit. His name was Fredegar Bolger, but his friends and family called him Fatty. Frodo pulled himself up then, to sit atop the low branch he had just been using to swing by his knees. “Ooh,” Frodo moaned, rubbing at his tingling face. “Everything’s moving too much!”

“Well, come down here with the sensible hobbits,” said Folco.

“Honestly,” Fatty laughed. “Who wants to climb an apple tree when the apples won’t be there for months yet?”

Frodo clambered down from his perch and all three boys flopped down in the grass. It was a fine spring day, if a little cool, and windy. Huge clouds sailed overhead.

“Didja hear about little Ruby Proudfoot?” Fatty asked presently. Mrs. Bolger was one of the best gossip mongers in Hobbiton, and Fatty always heard any interesting news before the other boys.

“What about her?” Frodo asked without opening his eyes. He had been peculiarly tired all day, and was glad to be resting in the fragrant grass.

“Well, she’s been out of school all week, you see? My ma heard that it’s because Mongo Bracegirdle put a frog down her dress and she squealed and squealed and the teacher had to send her home, she was so upset.”

“So why did she stay home all week?” asked Folco.

“She was too embarrassed to come back, I suppose,” Fatty answered with a shrug.

“I wonder if she’s ill,” Folco said thoughtfully. “I heard my parents saying that the carnelian fever is making the rounds again, all over the Shire.”

“Really?” asked Frodo, opening his eyes. “That’s fairly serious, isn’t it?”

“It can be,” said Fatty. “My ma says lads and lasses all over the Shire catch it, when it comes every ten years or so. They generally recover and then they can’t catch it again, but every so often you hear of someone who’s died of it.”

“It’s still pretty rare, though,” Folco said. “I barely remember the last time it went round, but only a handful of little ones in Hobbiton caught it. And maybe this time, the miller’s son will be the only one.”

Frodo raised himself up on his elbows. “The miller’s son? You mean Ted Sandyman?”

“That’s right,” Folco replied. The Boffin smial was very near the mill. “Poor old Ted’s been sick over a week, now. They started saying it’s carnelian fever a few days back.”

“That’s peculiar,” Frodo said thoughtfully. “I saw Ted about a week ago and thought he seemed to have a cold. He was sneezing a lot, anyway.”

“Well, I guess not,” said Fatty. “They say it’s a mild case, at any rate. He’ll probably be back at work by next week.”

The three lads sat for awhile longer, talking of various matters and watching the clouds sailing overhead, but soon their stomachs reminded them it was close to tea-time and they hurried home.

“Hullo, Master Gamgee!” Frodo said cheerfully as he let himself in the front gate of Bag End.

“Afternoon, Mr. Frodo,” the Gaffer replied with a decorous nod from his position kneeling amongst the marigolds.

Frodo was nearly up to the front door before his sensitive ears detected a faint muttering. Glancing around for the source, he soon noticed a head of light brown curls bent industriously over the creeping sweet pea vines that grew beneath the kitchen window. Frodo smiled fondly at the earnest little form and crept closer.

“Now see here, ye stubborn ol’ vine,” the figure muttered as Frodo came to stand unnoticed behind him. “You’d best be behavin’ yourself proper, or I’ll—I’ll slay ye with my sword!” The figure brandished its small gardening trowel threateningly at the wayward plant. “I want Master Bilbo and Mr. Frodo to look out this ‘ere window and see a nice set o’ blossoms, not you, ye great tangle!”

“Subduing the ferocious sweet peas, are you, Ranger Samomir?” Frodo suddenly intoned, quite unable to restrain himself.

The intrepid hero whirled around in surprise, dropping his trowel with a thump. “Why, Mr. Frodo!” exclaimed Sam, going red. “I didn’t hear ye there, sir!”

“I am sorry for sneaking up on you, Sam,” Frodo said, valiantly endeavouring to sound contrite. In all honesty, the older lad was struggling to contain a fit of laughter at the sheepish expression on Sam’s face.

Sam finally forgot his embarrassment and smiled back at Frodo. “I pruned the geraniums all by meself today, Mr. Frodo!” the child said proudly.

“And made a lovely job of it too, I daresay,” Frodo replied, glancing over at the flowerbed in question. “I’m sure Uncle Bilbo will be very pleased,” he added, after pausing to decide what would best encourage Sam.

Frodo left a delighted Ranger Samomir to contend with the unruly sweet peas and went inside. It had been nearly a week since Sam’s tantrum over Ted Sandyman. Frodo continued to make every effort to show Sam there were no hard feelings, for Sam had seemed dreadfully awkward and unsure of himself for several days after that incident.

Sam’s derision of Bucklanders had certainly hurt, but Frodo never doubted that the words were spoken in anger and frustration, rather than real prejudice. Frodo smiled as he began undoing the buttons on his jacket, remembering the wildflowers he had found on his windowsill after returning home from helping Ted, and the conversation with Bilbo that had followed.

“Isn’t it obvious, my dear boy?” Bilbo asked seriously, when Frodo had described the incident with Ted and shown him the flowers. “Samwise is begging your pardon.”

“He is?” Frodo was puzzled.

Bilbo smiled at his nephew, brown eyes twinkling. “I daresay he’d apologize to your face, if he could, but poor Sam has always been a bashful little fellow.”

Frodo looked down at the miraculous flowers in his hands, then back at Bilbo, sitting beside him at the kitchen table. “What... what should I do with them, Uncle?”

“Do?” echoed Bilbo, placing one hand over both of Frodo’s. “Why, you must do whatever you wish with them! They were a gift, freely given.”

Frodo hadn’t expected Sam to stay angry long, but the gift had come as a great surprise. Indeed, Frodo had been deeply moved; he was by no means accustomed to receiving any sort of consideration over hurt feelings. In Brandy Hall no one had a thought to spare for such trivial matters, at any rate not when a lonely and unnoticed orphan was the hobbit involved.

Sam’s simple act of apology had left Frodo wondering what in Middle Earth he might have done to deserve such a true friend. It was a question he could not answer; he could only hope that one day he would do something to deserve Sam’s friendship. For now, he had settled on hanging the wildflowers to dry from his bedroom ceiling.

Frodo remembered climbing down from his desk chair to find Bilbo standing in the doorway, wearing a knowing smile. The old hobbit had glanced up at the ceiling and then back at Frodo, and walked away without a word, whistling cheerfully.

The following afternoon, Frodo had seen Sam working with his Gaffer and casting surreptitious glances at Frodo’s window every few minutes. From the angle of Sam’s gaze, Frodo had no doubt the younger boy had seen the wildflowers, and Frodo was glad of it.

After hanging his jacket up on its peg, Frodo wandered off to find Bilbo, for it was nearly time for tea. The old hobbit was reading in his study, and Frodo walked in through the open door and leaned against the frame.

“Hullo, my boy,” said Bilbo, turning from his desk. “Had a good day?”

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo answered with a smile. “I’m awfully tired now, though.”

Bilbo marked his place and got up. “And no wonder, lad!” he exclaimed. “You didn’t eat much at luncheon today. You must be famished! I’ll get our tea things directly.”

Frodo followed Bilbo to the kitchen and helped prepare a mountain of sandwiches and biscuits to go with their tea, but in truth he didn’t have much appetite. He picked at the tea things and did the same at supper a few hours later, trying to ignore Bilbo’s concerned looks all the while.

When Frodo stated that he was ready to go to bed at eight o’clock, Bilbo helped the sleepy tween into his nightclothes and tucked him in tenderly.

“It’s likely just as well that you’re going to bed early tonight, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo said. “You ate so little today, I feel sure you must be coming down with a cold.”

April 19, 1392

The following morning, Frodo awoke feeling a good deal more groggy than was usual. Also, his throat felt raw and inflamed. Frodo crawled sleepily out of his warm bed, deciding that he did indeed have a cold, and a nasty one, by the feel of things. After washing up and dressing, Frodo ambled unsteadily to the kitchen.

“My throat hurts, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo said, although it came out as more of a croak.

“Oh, dear!” Bilbo said, pulling out a chair at the table. “Well, you’ll stay in and rest today, hmm?”

Frodo nodded and tried to eat a piece of toast, but Bilbo’s good bread tasted dry and scratchy today, and he couldn’t finish it.

Bilbo decided to read Frodo stories all morning instead of giving him his lessons. The thrilling tales from ‘Dragons: An Anthology, By Gandalf the Grey,’ which Bilbo had given Frodo on his last birthday, were greatly enjoyed by the young hobbit. Bilbo paused in his reading only to badger Frodo to drink more water, for Bilbo did not know much about nursing sick hobbitlings, but he did know that drinking fluids was crucial for some reason.

For his part, Frodo was not too ill to take pleasure in being fussed over by his uncle. He had been ill often enough in Brandy Hall, but it was usually several days before anyone noticed, and no one had much time to spend with him even then.

“Uncle Bilbo, is Gandalf the Grey the same Gandalf you met on your adventure?” Frodo asked suddenly, later that evening.

Bilbo glanced up from the page he had been reading from. “The very same,” he said, chuckling at the awed expression on Frodo’s pale face. “Where did you think I got the book from, my boy?”

Frodo absorbed this exciting bit of information for a moment before formulating his next question. “Is he really a wizard?”

“He is indeed,” Bilbo replied.

Frodo sighed wistfully. “I wish I could meet him one day.”

Bilbo laughed. “Well, lad, he still comes round to visit every so often. I daresay you’ll see him eventually!”

“Truly?” said Frodo in amazement. “He comes here? To Bag End?” Frodo looked around at the cozy sitting room, trying and failing to picture a powerful and mysterious wizard in these mundane surroundings.

“Well, of course to Bag End, dear boy,” Bilbo answered, amused by his nephew’s incredulity. “He hasn’t been seen in the Shire for a long time, you know. I shouldn’t be surprised if we saw him in the next few years.”

“Is he... is he very frightening, Uncle?” Frodo asked a little more timidly.

Bilbo chuckled again. “Frightening? Well, he certainly can be when he wants to be, Frodo-lad. You needn’t worry, though. He would never harm you.”

Frodo thought about this for a moment, then settled back against Bilbo’s side and motioned for him to continue the story.

April 20, 1392

The next day, Frodo awoke with a runny nose and cough to match his sore throat. He got up and dressed himself, but couldn’t muster up the energy for anything more than dozing on the couch in Bilbo’s study most of the day, listening to the reassuring sound of quill scratching on parchment and obediently drinking water or syrupy tea whenever it was put in front of him.

Later, Frodo roused slightly to find that the sun had gone down and the room was very dim. His eyes were sore and tired, and oddly sensitive to the light, so Frodo was grateful for the soothing darkness. He opened his eyes a little more when he felt a cool hand on his forehead; he saw Bilbo’s face creased with concern in the flickering light of the small fire on the hearth.

The next thing Frodo noticed was Bilbo lifting him gently into his arms and carrying him for awhile. Then he was back in his own room, and Bilbo was undressing him and putting him back in bed. His last clear memory that day was of Bilbo sitting on the bed beside him, stroking his hair tenderly as the young hobbit relaxed into slumber.

19. Progression

April 21, 1392

Bilbo was drifting, drifting slowly through a white mist on a gently rocking boat. He was dimly aware that he was dreaming, and he felt peaceful and unconcerned.

“Do not leave him until he is ready,” said a voice, and Bilbo understood immediately, as though they were continuing a conversation that had been interrupted earlier.

“I wouldn’t think of it!” said Bilbo indignantly, knowing somehow that the voice spoke of his leaving forever.

“Not now,” said the voice. “But one day.”

“I am happy here, with Frodo,” Bilbo protested. “I have no plans to leave the Shire!”

“Not now,” said the voice again. “But what will you do when the restlessness returns?”

“Returns?” Bilbo repeated blankly. “I would never abandon Frodo! Never!”

“Not until he is ready,” said the voice.

Bilbo said nothing, and drifted again for awhile in the peaceful white mist.

A slender white hand rested gently on the old hobbit’s forearm. Bilbo turned in his chair to regard the dark-haired lady standing beside him in the parlour of Bag End. “We are so grateful you have taken in our little Frodo,” Primula said with a soft smile.

Bilbo stared into those remarkable sky-blue eyes for what seemed an eternity. Her gaze was as sweet and solemn as he remembered from all those long years ago, but now it reminded him undeniably of another.

“He has become dearer to me than I can say,” Bilbo whispered.

“Then what comes will be painful,” Drogo said gently. Bilbo looked up to see his cousin standing by the blazing hearth, tapping his pipe thoughtfully and looking as large as life. It brought tears to Bilbo’s eyes, seeing so vividly in his dreams these two who had been dead so many years.

Bilbo came awake with a start. He glanced out the window and saw that the sun was up. He must have dozed off just before dawn. Bilbo stretched and sat up stiffly in the armchair beside Frodo’s bed. What had he been thinking of before he had fallen asleep? Oh yes, Gandalf. And Bilbo’s own adventure. He had been thinking that he would like to go about again someday, when Frodo was old enough for a longer journey than the one to Buckland.

Frodo. The old hobbit reached out to touch the face of the little one in the bed before him. Still much too hot. Hotter even than last night. This was no mere cold, that much was certain. Bilbo shook his head and got up to fetch a new basin of cool water. He would follow the course of action he had been considering the evening before. As soon as the Gaffer appeared for work, he would go out and ask him to come and have a look at the lad. Hamfast had six children; surely he could tell Bilbo if it was serious.

Bilbo returned and paused in the doorway. He could barely see the small form lying in the bed by the dim light that came in around the half-open curtains. Frodo had slept all night and most of yesterday, but Bilbo could tell it was not proper sleep, for the lad was frequently restless and could not seem to get comfortable; he woke often to drink water, for he was quite congested and could only sleep with his mouth open. Bilbo went into the room and sat on the edge of Frodo’s bed. He dampened the rag in the cool water and gently sponged the child’s flushed face.

Frodo opened his eyes at his uncle’s touch and focused his bleary sky-blue gaze on Bilbo’s face. Bilbo paused in his ministrations to stare, recalling his dream. “You have your mother’s eyes, my dear boy,” the old hobbit said softly, and smoothed away a dark curl that was sticking to the lad’s forehead.

Frodo turned his head aside and began to cough. “Uncle?” the child whispered when he had finished.

Bilbo noticed that Frodo’s lips were dry and cracking, and hastily snatched up the cup of tea that had been cooling on the bureau. “Drink this, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo murmured, helping Frodo to sit up and pressing the rim of the cup against his lips.

Frodo drank thirstily and lay back on his pillows, closing his eyes tiredly. “It’s too bright, Uncle Bilbo,” he mumbled after a moment. “My eyes hurt.”

Bilbo glanced at the window in confusion, but got up and closed the curtains all the way. “Is that better, lad?”

“Yes, thank you,” Frodo said, but didn’t open his eyes again. He did reach down and pull up the extra quilt he had kicked off earlier.

Just then, Bilbo heard the front gate open. He turned to tell Frodo he would be back directly, but the lad had fallen asleep again. Bilbo got up quietly and went to the front door. He stepped out into the garden to meet a startled Hamfast Gamgee.

“Master?” the Gaffer said as soon as he saw Bilbo’s face. “Is somethin’ wrong, sir?”

“Would—would you mind having a look at Frodo, Hamfast?” Bilbo requested. “He’s been ill since the day before yesterday, and I’d like to know what you think.”

“Me, Mr. Bilbo?” the Gaffer asked, looking puzzled. “I can send for the doctor if need be, sir.”

“I don’t know if it is necessary, Hamfast,” Bilbo said awkwardly. “You have six children—I’m hoping you can advise me.”

The Gaffer raised his eyebrows. “Aye, if ye think I might know what’s ailin’ Mr. Frodo, then o’ course I’ll help if I can, sir,.

Frodo was lying in bed half-awake when Bilbo came back. His uncle was followed by Sam’s Gaffer, for some mysterious reason, who approached and stood beside the bed without quite touching it.

“Ah...” Hamfast began. “How are ye feelin’, Mr. Frodo?”

“Fine, thank you, sir,” Frodo answered automatically.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “The truth, if you please, Frodo-lad,” the old hobbit admonished gently.

Frodo considered for a moment. “Cold,” he said finally. “And hot. And tired. And my throat hurts, and my eyes.”

Hamfast bent forward to peer more closely at Frodo. Frodo gazed back tiredly, wishing he could just go back to sleep.

“May I touch you, sir?” the Gaffer asked finally. Frodo nodded his assent, and Hamfast carefully felt Frodo’s forehead. “That’s a high fever all right, Master Bilbo,” Hamfast said, turning his head to look at Frodo’s uncle.

“I thought so,” Bilbo sighed. “What should I do, Hamfast?”

The Gaffer noticed the basin of water sitting on the floor and picked it up. He seemed to have forgotten his awkwardness at examining Frodo, for with quick, sure hands, he turned the lad gently onto his stomach and lifted his nightshirt.

Frodo sucked in a breath as he felt the cool air on his bare skin, and he gasped when he felt a cold, wet cloth being rubbed over his back.

“Just lie quiet, sir,” Hamfast murmured gruffly. “We need ta cool ye down a mite.”

Frodo tried to relax, even though he wanted to laugh crazily at the thought of Sam’s crusty father bathing Frodo’s back with gentle, work-roughened hands.

Bilbo watched silently as Hamfast put the basin back down on the floor and straightened up. The gardener lowered the back of Frodo’s nightshirt again and tucked the blankets snugly around the child. Frodo immediately curled on his side and went back to sleep.

Bilbo motioned the Gaffer to follow him out into the hall. “Well?” he said when he had closed Frodo’s bedroom door.

Hamfast shifted uncomfortably under Bilbo’s scrutiny. “I must say, Master Bilbo, I think I oughta get Bell up here to take a look. She knows more ‘bout ailments o’ the little’uns, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

“But you suspect something, don’t you, Hamfast?” Bilbo asked anxiously.

“Aye,” the Gaffer said reluctantly. “I’m afeared it might be the carnelian fever, sir.”

Bilbo stared at his gardener.

“I’ll run and fetch Bell, Mr. Bilbo,” Hamfast said finally, when it was clear he would get no response from his master. Bilbo sat limply on the front step as the Gaffer went briskly back down the Hill to Bagshot Row. If it was carnelian fever, then Frodo’s suffering would get a great deal worse before it got better. Bilbo closed his eyes. “He has become dearer to me than I can say,” Bilbo had whispered. “Then what comes will be painful,” the dream-Drogo had replied.

When he heard steps on the path, Bilbo opened his eyes again. Hamfast and Bell were coming toward him. He stood and opened the door, leading the pair back to Frodo’s room. Bilbo stepped inside. The lad was still asleep. Bell went at once to Frodo’s bed, feeling his face and chest with a mother’s practiced ease.

“What d’ye think, lass?” the Gaffer asked his wife softly.

Bell bent down to brush dark curls from the clammy forehead of the sleeping child. “Aye,” she murmured after a moment. “It’s faint yet, but there’s a rash all right.”

Hamfast sighed. “I’d hoped I was wrong,” he said gruffly.

“What is it, Bell?” Bilbo asked, suddenly unable to bear the anticipation.

“Ye’d better send for Dr. Hornblower right away, sir,” Bell said firmly. “It looks like the carnelian fever ta me, all right.”

20. Dr. Hornblower

April 21, 1392 – midmorning

Dr. Rufo Hornblower was just settling in for a nice, long cup of tea when someone knocked at the front door.

“I can get it, dear,” said Rufo’s wife, looking up from her crochet hook.

“Never mind, Ruby,” Rufo answered cheerfully. “Like as not it’s for me, anyway.”

The middle-aged hobbit set down his teacup and strode purposefully to the door. He opened it to find a sandy-haired lad of about 23 standing on the step, shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

“Why, Halfred Gamgee!” Rufo exclaimed. “What brings you here? You haven’t swallowed another button, have you?”

“No indeed, sir!” Halfred replied with a slight blush. “It were a good twelve years ago, the last time that happened! I was sent by Master Baggins.”

“I see,” said Dr. Hornblower, turning suddenly serious. “Is he all right?”

“Oh, aye, beggin’ your pardon, Doctor,” Halfred said hastily. “It’s Mr. Frodo. He’s awful sick. You’ll come, won’t ye?”

“Let me get my bag and I’ll come with you now,” Rufo said immediately. He ducked back into the smial long enough to pick his brown leather bag off the floor where he’d last dropped it. “I’m away to Bag End, Ruby!” he called to his wife, and followed Halfred down the path.

Rufo had never met Frodo Baggins, and he was very curious to see the child Bilbo had taken in. He had known Mr. Baggins slightly for many years, and cherished a certain fondness for the strange old bird. Rufo himself possessed a most un-hobbitlike curiosity and a corresponding penchant for interesting people. He was eager to see if young Frodo was as interesting as his benefactor.

“Can you tell me anything more about my patient, Halfred?” Rufo asked after they had walked awhile in silence. Dr. Hornblower’s smial was on the opposite side of Hobbiton from Bag End, so they had a fair few minutes ahead of them.

“They wouldn’t let me go in, sir, but me mum and dad say he’s got a high fever and a bit o’ rash.” Halfred looked up at Rufo with worried hazel eyes.

“Hm,” Rufo said noncommittally. His first thought was carnelian fever, as he knew it was going round. Doubtless the Gamgees had thought the same thing, which was why they had kept Halfred away. The illness was extremely contagious to children, although adults rarely caught it.

“You’ll be able to help him, won’t ye?” Halfred’s apprehensive words recalled Rufo to his young companion.

“I shall certainly do my best,” Rufo replied, in the cheerful voice he had cultivated over the years for calming anxious loved ones without giving false hope. He had learned long ago that it was always best to be cautious. Dr. Hornblower glanced curiously at the worried lad walking beside him. There was something there to suggest more than the requisite neighbourly concern, and Rufo’s indomitable curiosity was aroused. “Do you know Mr. Frodo well, then, lad?” the doctor asked offhandedly.

“Aye, well enough, sir. He plays with us sometimes. Sam knows ‘im best, I reckon.”

“And what’s the lad like? From Buckland, isn’t he?” Rufo thought it best to keep Halfred talking; they were nearly in sight of the Hill, and it would be a kindness to distract the boy.

“Aye, Mr. Frodo moved from Buckland ‘bout a month before Yule,” Halfred answered politely. “He’s my age, I’m guessin’. Real quiet an’ polite, is Mr. Frodo, an’ shy at first,” Halfred continued with a smile, seeing that Dr. Hornblower was still interested. “An’ awful kind, too. He’s been uncommon good to our Sam, especially; got him out of a real nasty situation with Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins.”

“Indeed?” Rufo was intrigued by that last statement, but Halfred volunteered no more information. Nonetheless, the lad had given him all sorts of interesting thoughts to mull over. Halfred had said some especially complimentary things about Frodo, and spoke very warmly of the young Baggins. These observations would seem to confirm Rufo’s earlier impression that Halfred, and likely all the Gamgees, were fond of this boy beyond any dutiful concern for their master’s heir. This Frodo must certainly be an unusual child; it wasn’t just any gentlehobbit who could earn the affection and respect of practical, no-nonsense folk like the Gamgees.

Rufo glanced up at the Hill beginning to loom in front of them; he hoped the case was not serious. His newest patient would doubtless prove as interesting as he’d anticipated.

Dr. Hornblower’s knock at the round, green front door of Bag End was answered by none other than Bell Gamgee.

“Well, thank goodness!” Bell exclaimed on seeing who it was. “Do come in, sir. I’ll show ye the way. Has Hal gone home?”

“Yes indeed, Mrs. Gamgee. I thought it best,” Rufo replied, and followed Bell through the winding halls. The doctor couldn’t recall being inside Bag End for years, its master having an uncommonly good constitution. “How is Mr. Frodo?”

Bell sighed. “The fever’s dreadful high, doctor. I didn’t want ta worry poor Mr. Bilbo, o’ course, but it’s higher than I’ve ever seen one.”

“And Halfred said there was a rash?”

“Aye,” Bell replied grimly, her skirts swishing along the polished floor, she was walking so rapidly. “Just come up this mornin’ I’d guess. Looks like the carnelian fever ta me, all right.”

“Oh, dear,” Rufo murmured. “I was hoping he might’ve escaped with a mild case.”

“Here we are, sir,” Bell said then, pushing open a door and motioning for the doctor to precede her. Rufo stepped into a dark bedroom and waited for his eyes to adjust. He noticed immediately that the curtains were drawn; he could see the outlines of furniture (and hobbits) faintly in the dim light.

“Good morning, Mr. Baggins,” Rufo said to the old hobbit seated by the bed.

Bilbo looked up in surprise, then smiled in relief when he recognized the visitor. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Dr. Hornblower,” he said courteously, and motioned Rufo over to the bed. Rufo set his bag down on the nightstand and settled in the chair that Bilbo had quickly vacated. To business, then. He focused his attention on the child lying restlessly before him. The lad’s eyes were closed, and he was frowning slightly.

“Hullo there, Frodo,” Rufo said softly.  His patient woke slowly, revealing a pair of the most striking cerulean blue eyes Rufo had ever seen. “I’m Dr. Hornblower, and I must have a look at you, all right?” He smiled reassuringly at the disoriented boy.

“Yes,” Frodo said hoarsely. Those astounding eyes fixed briefly on Rufo’s face, then wandered away vaguely across Bilbo and Bell to stare unfocused at the ceiling.

Rufo noted that the curly dark hair was damp with sweat and tangled against the pillow. The face was very pale, and unusually fair for a hobbit, Rufo noted distantly. Finishing his cursory inspection, Rufo lowered the blankets to Frodo’s waist and unbuttoned the nightshirt. “Close your eyes, my boy. I must have a little more light.”

Frodo closed his eyes tightly and Bell opened the curtains until Rufo nodded at her. He laid a hand on the child’s chest and another on his forehead. A high fever, indeed. He bent closer over the boy and listened carefully to his breathing and heart rate. He examined the trail of faint pink spots along Frodo’s hairline, and peered into his mouth, nose, and ears. He motioned to Bell to draw the curtains once more.

“Can you cough for me, Frodo?”

Frodo did so, obligingly, and Rufo smiled at him.

“That’s a good lad,” he said. “A fine, strong cough.” He buttoned Frodo’s nightshirt and covered him up again, then looked over to Bilbo hovering tensely near the foot of the bed. “May we speak outside, Mr. Baggins?”

“I’ll stay with Mr. Frodo, sir,” Bell offered quickly, and Bilbo led Rufo out into the hall.

“It’s the carnelian fever, isn’t it, Doctor,” Bilbo said flatly once they were alone.

“Aye, I’m afraid it is,” Rufo replied, looking at the old hobbit sympathetically. Bilbo’s face was lined with tension, and his brown eyes were troubled. “This is a serious and very contagious illness, as I imagine you’re aware, so I must ask a few questions.”

“Of course,” Bilbo murmured. His hands were held tightly together, in a mute testimony to the old hobbit’s self-control.

“Now this is very important, Mr. Baggins: was Frodo in contact with any other children after he first began to show symptoms?”

“No,” said Bilbo with certainty. “I remember. That was three days ago when he woke with a sore throat, and I’ve kept him in ever since.”

“Excellent. Has Frodo had any contact with Ruby Proudfoot or Ted Sandyman in the last fortnight?”

Bilbo paused, thinking. “With Ted Sandyman, yes,” he said finally. “Perhaps nine or ten days ago, I should say.”

“Well, that’ll be the source, then,” Rufo said. “Young Ruby and Ted are the only other known cases in Hobbiton. Ted has only a mild case; I’m afraid Frodo isn’t quite so fortunate.”

“Tell me what I must do for him,” Bilbo said determinedly.

Rufo looked at the eccentric old hobbit with a smile of admiration. These Bagginses could still surprise him; that was why he was so fond of them. “The next few days will be key,” Rufo began. “His fever is dangerously high right now; it must be controlled or Frodo may weaken enough to suffer serious... complications.” Rufo hoped that would suffice. He did not wish to speak of what would happen if the illness entered the child’s brain; seizures, coma, death.

“And how can it be controlled?” Bilbo asked calmly.

“You can keep cooling him with the rag and lukewarm water,” Rufo said. “Take care he doesn’t shiver, though; that will raise his temperature. Do you have any ginger tea?”

Bilbo thought for a moment and shook his head.

“That will help, as well. I have some in my bag I can leave with you. In any case, encourage Frodo to drink as much liquid as he can. A feverish body loses a great deal of water.”

Bilbo processed this before nodding.

“Keep the room as dark as you can, and don’t let the boy read while his eyes are still sensitive to light,” Rufo continued. “The rash will spread over his whole body in the next few days; don’t allow any other children near him until the rash is completely gone, or he might infect them. That should be just two or three days from now; carnelian fever usually runs its course with less than a week between the first symptoms appearing and the recovery. And even when he is no longer contagious, you must keep him on bed rest for at least another week.”

“I understand,” Bilbo said. “What about Bell and Hamfast? Can they carry the fever back to their own children?”

“The Gamgees will be fine,” Rufo said reassuringly. “They know to wash after handling any sick child, and that will be plenty to protect their little ones.”

Bilbo looked relieved. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said.

Rufo smiled. “The Gamgees are fine people, as I’m sure you’re aware. I’ve known ‘em since before they were married. You can count on them to give you a hand, I’m sure. Now let’s go back in, and I’ll give you some of that tea before I leave.”

Bilbo led Rufo back into the child’s bedroom. Bell occupied the chair beside the bed, sponging off Frodo’s flushed face. Rufo and Bilbo paused inside the doorway while she finished.

“I am dreadfully worried,” Bilbo finally admitted, looking only at his young heir.

“It’s all part and parcel of being a parent, Mr. Baggins,” Dr. Hornblower said gently. “It’ll be worth it in the end, you mark my words.” Bell finished her self-appointed task and yielded the chair to Bilbo.

“It’s already well worth it, Doctor, whatever comes to pass,” Bilbo murmured, smiling slightly as he settled in the chair.

Rufo watched sympathetically as the old hobbit reached out to the child in the bed and smoothed away a dark curl that had fallen across the clammy forehead. Rufo handed a packet of ginger tea to Bell, then closed his bag and lifted it off the bureau. “I’ll be off now,” he said when Bilbo looked up. “If things don’t go as I’ve said, or if you need me for any reason, just send one of the Gamgee lads to fetch me.”

“They’ll be happy ta help, as will their mother,” Bell added cheerfully. “Don’t ye fret, Mr. Bilbo. Hamfast and I are just down the Hill, and one or t’other of us will be up so often ye’ll think we’ve moved in!”

Bilbo smiled and squeezed Bell’s hand gratefully. “I’ve always said you Gamgees have hearts of gold,” the old hobbit replied.

Bell arched an eyebrow and smiled warmly before turning to Rufo. “Shall I see ye to the door, Dr. Hornblower?”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Bilbo said.

Rufo nodded in reply and followed Bell into the hall.

Frodo dozed fitfully after Dr. Hornblower left, but he felt tired enough to believe he hadn’t slept in days. The afternoon passed in a blur of heat and cold and coughing and strange dreams and Bell’s voice and Bilbo holding a cup to his lips.

Later, Frodo awoke in the dark room to feel the cold, wet rag moving slowly over his hot chest and stomach. He tried to open his eyes, but they were sore and seemed to be stuck shut, so he gave up.

“Bilbo?” Frodo called hoarsely, suddenly frightened that he might be back in Brandy Hall, alone. “Are you there, Uncle?” Some distant part of his mind hated the way his voice quavered. The rag’s motion stopped and a cool hand gently caressed his hot cheek, then moved again to stroke his hair. Frodo sighed in relief and relaxed into the sheets.

“I’m right here, Frodo-lad,” came the voice that meant security.

“Bilbo,” Frodo said again, vaguely, trying to recall what he had meant to say. “Bilbo.” He licked his dry lips, and a cup was placed against his mouth as a hand lifted his head and neck an inch off the pillow. Frodo sipped thirstily, and finished whatever was in the cup. Water? Tea? He hadn’t noticed. His head was gently lowered back to the pillow, and a kiss brushed lightly over his forehead.

“My dear boy,” Bilbo murmured.

Frodo held still for a moment, enjoying the sound of that voice, but soon the heat came back upon him, sneaking up his legs and under his back, making him feel as though the sheet was burning him. Frodo frowned. Was the heat coming from his back, or from the sheet under his back? He couldn’t tell, although he had the vague notion that he should know the answer. Frodo shifted restlessly.

“Let’s turn you over, shall we?” Bilbo said. This sounded like a fine idea to Frodo, who immediately tried to twist over onto his stomach; but the dizziness that flowered in his head stopped him halfway, and Bilbo had to help him turn all the way over.

Frodo coughed a little and waited for the bed to stop spinning crazily. At least his hot back was facing the cooler air now. A moment later, the cold, wet rag had returned, and Frodo relaxed as Bilbo moved it gently over his back and shoulders. Frodo smiled into his pillow. He couldn’t imagine a better feeling than the cool rag slowly taking away the heat.

But where was his nightshirt? Frodo had nearly fallen asleep, but this thought woke him up again. He tried to concentrate... that was the rag on his back, and he could feel the blanket folded over his legs, and the sheet and pillow on his front... which meant no nightshirt. Frodo felt vaguely alarmed for a moment. It was crucial to have a nightshirt, he thought muzzily. Why? Why... One never knew when Daisy Gamgee might decide to walk into one’s bedroom. Yes, that made sense. But after a few more minutes of that marvellous rag gently kneading his back, even that thought ceased to trouble the lad, and he sank slowly into a feverish slumber.

21. A Mother’s Touch

April 23, 1392 – late afternoon

Bilbo’s head nodded slowly toward his chest, but the sharp pain in his neck woke him before he could entirely fall asleep. The old hobbit sat up stiffly and forced his eyes open. This wouldn’t do at all.

“Lotho! No...” the child in the bed cried out, then subsided into vague murmuring.

“Hush, Frodo. You’re all right, you’re safe, lad,” Bilbo said, leaning forward to grasp the flailing hand of his restless ward.

The red and swollen eyes opened slightly, and Bilbo watched them move edgily around the dark room, looking for whatever apparitions Frodo’s feverish mind had conjured up.

Bilbo sighed and stroked his nephew’s matted curls soothingly. The poor lad was so sick. Dr. Hornblower had come again this morning, and had gone away looking grim. Hamfast had been here as well, and Bell had stayed all afternoon, coaxing Bilbo to eat and taking turns sitting with Frodo, but she had gone home a few hours ago to look after her own family, promising to return soon.

Bilbo looked up blearily when he heard the front door open and close. Bell must be back. Bilbo felt relieved; although he would never ask her or the Gaffer to spend so much time here, he was grateful beyond words not to have to cope with this alone.

“Any change, Mr. Bilbo?” Bell asked softly from the doorway.

Bilbo shook his head.

“I think we’d best follow Dr. Hornblower’s orders, then, and try the bath,” Bell said.

“Yes,” Bilbo answered reluctantly. Dr. Hornblower had been dismayed that the fever had shown no signs of breaking after four days, and had recommended a cool bath as a last resort if Frodo did not improve by this afternoon. Bilbo tried to gather his muddled thoughts; he would need to draw a bath, then, and have a bucket of cold water handy to cool the bath water...

“I’ll draw the bath, sir,” Bell said, and disappeared with a smile before Bilbo could argue. The old hobbit shook his head at this newest display of Gamgee kindness, and applied himself to undressing his nephew.

After several attempts, Bilbo succeeded in getting Frodo’s nightshirt over his head and off. The child was still mumbling incoherently to himself. Bilbo glanced quickly at the large, red splotches that now covered the lad’s entire body before covering him again with the blanket to prevent chills. The old hobbit helped Frodo drink a little ginger tea and then allowed him to rest.

“It’s all ready, Mr. Bilbo,” Bell said from the doorway, a few minutes later.

Bilbo carried Frodo to the bathroom down the hall and eased the child carefully into the tub. Bell had filled it with lukewarm water which came up to Frodo’s chest. The lad seemed to emerge from his fog somewhat when he felt the water on his skin. Bell added a little more cold water to the tub and watched Frodo carefully for signs of shivering. There were none, and Frodo opened his eyes a little as he adjusted to the cooler water.

Bell began cupping water in her hands and pouring it over Frodo’s narrow chest and back, while Bilbo gripped his shoulders from behind to prevent Frodo from slipping and submerging his head. The boy blinked and turned to stare at Bell, but oddly enough he showed no trace of embarrassment.

“How are the sweet peas under the kitchen window?” Frodo said quite clearly.

Bell blinked and stared at the lad for a moment, perplexed. “They’re fine, Mr. Frodo,” she replied finally.

“That’s good,” Frodo mumbled, closing his eyes as he relaxed slowly into the water. “That’s good...”

Bilbo shifted position to keep a grip on the boy’s shoulders and glanced up at Bell.

“I don’t think he can handle any more, sir,” Bell’s hazel eyes lifted to meet Bilbo’s brown ones. “Let’s get him back ta bed.”

Bilbo nodded and lifted Frodo gently out of the tub. The bucket of cold water that Bell was supposed to add was still half full. Bell was ready with a towel, and between the two of them they got the confused child dried and into a fresh nightshirt.

“Sam won’t like it if something happens to the sweet peas,” Frodo announced as Bilbo carried him back to bed.

“Don’t worry, lad,” was all Bilbo could think to say as he pulled the blanket over his young heir.

Frodo closed his eyes immediately and slept, exhausted from the bath. Bell bent down to feel the boy’s forehead, and straightened up again, frowning to herself in worry. Bilbo looked at her and quickly returned his attention to his nephew. He knew without asking that the fever remained dangerously high.

“My lot’ll be wantin’ supper soon,” Bell said finally. “I’ll be back in an hour, and then you’d best be gettin’ some sleep.”

Bilbo nodded to show he’d heard but did not look up. He reached out to take the sleeping child’s hand in his, and he listened to the door shutting softly as Bell departed. Bilbo closed his weary eyes, allowing a few tears to escape as he squeezed that precious little hand.

“Please get well, dear boy,” Bilbo whispered.

April 23, 1392 – early evening

Sam sat quietly in the grass by the door of Number 3, Bagshot Row. He could hear Hobby and Sappy Twofoot playing next door, but he wasn’t paying attention to their noisy chatter. It didn’t seem right, somehow, that folks should play and be happy when Mr. Frodo was so ill.

No one discussed the subject in front of Sam, but the youngest Gamgee lad was sharp as a bite of Oatbarton cheese when it came to matters concerning those he cared about. Sam had certainly noticed the worried looks and anxious whispers that his parents exchanged whenever one or the other of them returned from Bag End. He knew it was the carnelian fever, and he knew it was serious; much more serious than Ted Sandyman’s case.

“Oh, it ain’t fair!” Sam whispered furiously to the gathering dusk. Mr. Frodo had done nothing but give help to that miserable Sandyman and his miserable cart, and this was how he was repaid. Of course, Sam knew that Frodo was not likely to see the matter in those terms. Mr. Frodo had his own special way of seeing things, of which Sam in fact approved; it was part of what made Frodo special.

Sam glanced toward the path that led up the Hill to Bag End. His mother had disappeared up that path not twenty minutes ago, and Sam had decided to wait outside to greet his brothers. Hamson and Halfred worked for Farmer Cotton nearly every day now, and were often invited to stay to supper; but they were always home before dark.

The dusk continued to deepen, and Sam leaned back on his elbows to look at the stars that were beginning to appear. Sam had always loved the stars; they reminded him of the elves in Mr. Bilbo’s stories. And Mr. Frodo’s stories, too. Sam tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it was no good; fat tears started to roll down his cheeks. Sam sniffled and held his hands over his mouth. He didn’t want his Gaffer and sisters to hear him blubbering.

“Sam?” a voice said softly.

Sam looked up to see Ham and Hal quietly coming up the walk. Both were peering at him in concern, and Sam hastily took his hands away from his mouth. The elder Gamgees exchanged a look.

“I’ll go on inside, Ham,” said Halfred.

Hamson sat down beside Sam and pulled the child into his lap. “Are you worryin’ about Mr. Frodo, Sam-lad?” the tweenager said quietly.

“Aye,” Sam sniffled.

They sat in companionable silence for awhile. Sam had wanted to be alone, but he was glad for his eldest brother’s reassuring presence, and his tears soon ceased to flow. Sam sighed and rested his head on Hamson’s shoulder.

“Ham, why doesn’t Mr. Frodo have a mother?” Sam asked presently.

Hamson paused. “Ye knew that both Mr. Frodo’s parents died many years ago, didn’t you, Sam-lad?”

“O’ course I knew that,” Sam said impatiently. “But what happened to ‘em? Mr. Frodo never talks about ‘em.”

“Well,” Hamson hesitated. “Well, Sam, they both drowneded, in an accident on the Brandywine river, about eleven years back. I reckon Mr. Frodo doesn’t remember them real well; he were only twelve at the time.”

“Oh,” Sam said in a small voice, trying to process the enormity of his friend’s past. Sam couldn’t fathom what it would be like to have no parents, just like that.

Hamson looked at Sam carefully. “Does it bother ye, Sam-lad? That our Mum’s been spendin’ so much time up at Bag End?”

“O’ course not!” Sam said, surprised. “Mr. Frodo oughta have a Mum about when he’s sick; I’m right glad he’s gettin’ ours, ‘cause there ain’t one better!”

For some reason, Hamson laughed at this remark, and ruffled Sam’s light brown curls. “You have a good heart, Sam Gamgee,” was all he said.

Sam sighed. “I hope he gets better real soon, Ham,” the child said.

“We all hope so,” Hamson replied quietly. He got up to go inside, but Sam sat down again in the grass. “Come inside soon, Sam-lad,” Hamson paused in the doorway. “It’s gettin’ near your bedtime.”

“I will,” Sam said, and Hamson closed the door.

Sam looked up at the stars. There were many more out now than a few minutes ago; the heavens were awash with the tiny, sparkling jewels.

“Oh, please make Mr. Frodo well again!” Sam whispered fervently to the sky. “Make him get better, so I can look after him always!” Sam’s small fists clenched with the urgency of his plea, and he squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, the stars were twinkling at him just as brightly. Sam wiped his eyes on his sleeve and went inside.

April 24, 1392 – just after midnight

Frodo was sitting in a little wooden chair in front of a warm hearth, which perhaps explained why he felt so dreadfully hot. He knew this chair. Frodo looked down. It was the miniature rocking chair that his father’s loving hands had carved for Frodo’s sixth Yule. Frodo smiled to see the old rocker again. He had thought it lost long ago; broken by some careless cousin a year after the boating accident that had claimed his parents.

Frodo remembered crying when he’d seen it lying there in a hundred pieces, offhandedly pushed over to the side of the parlour for some servant to clean up. Frodo had tried to fix it himself, frantically snatching up the broken sticks at a grave cost in splinters to his soft, thirteen-year-old hands. But he was too little, and he didn’t know how to put the pieces back together. And Papa was gone, and no one else would fix it.

“Don’t cry, darling,” a familiar voice said.

“Mama?” Frodo gazed up into a pair of sapphire eyes that he hadn’t seen clearly in twelve years, except perhaps when looking into a mirror.

“Hullo, little Frodo,” Primula said gently.

Frodo put his arms around his mother’s neck and rested his head on her shoulder, feeling the reassuring beat of her pulse. His little rocking chair was gone; now he was sitting on Primula’s lap, still in the old smial where he lived before Brandy Hall.

“I miss you,” Frodo sobbed.

Primula ran her fingers through his dark curls. “And I miss you. Don’t ever forget how much I love you, my Frodo.”

“And I love you, Mama,” the child whispered.

“My poor lad,” Primula said, holding him close. “You’ve been so very sick. But you’re almost done, my dear!”

“Am I going to die, Mama?” Frodo asked. He felt oddly unafraid, as though he were asking about the weather.

Primula smiled, her eyes softening as she regarded her only son, and she was as beautiful as Frodo remembered. “Not tonight, darling,” she whispered. Then she leaned down and kissed Frodo’s forehead, and her lips were wonderfully cool on his hot skin. Suddenly he began to feel pleasantly cool all over. But Primula was gone.

“Mama?” Frodo said desperately. He began to cry.

“Hush, hush, me dear,” a lady said.

Frodo continued to cry, disoriented and miserable. Eventually he became aware that the lady was holding him on her lap, rocking him gently back and forth. He could hear her breathing because his head was pressed against her shoulder.

“Mama?” Frodo croaked.

The lady’s breath caught in her throat, and the rocking paused. “It’s only Bell Gamgee, love,” she said finally. The rocking resumed.

Frodo gathered his wits as much as he could after another minute, and lifted his head off Bell’s shoulder. “Hullo, Mrs. Gamgee,” he murmured experimentally.

Bell smiled at him. “How d’ye feel, lad?” she asked.

“Tired,” was the only answer Frodo could think to make. He shifted uncomfortably in Bell’s arms; he realized that his nightshirt was soaked with sweat.

Bell’s smile broadened slowly as she felt his forehead and chest, and her whole face seemed to light up in the dark room. Frodo blinked, realizing that he was looking at her with his eyes wide open and not hurting in the least.

“The fever’s broken, me dear,” Bell said quietly. “You’re on the mend!”

Frodo tried to smile, since this news was apparently so important, but he wound up yawning instead.

Bell immediately got down to business and laid Frodo back in his bed. “Hmm, I’ll get you a fresh nightshirt,” Bell said, realizing that he was drenched.

Frodo closed his eyes and stretched a little. His nose was still running and his head ached a bit, but he felt oddly light and carefree. He could tell he was in his own bed at Bag End, and knowing with certainty where he was and what was happening was very pleasant indeed. Frodo frowned and opened his eyes. There was one thing that needed further explanation...

“Where is Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked.

Bell turned around from where she was rummaging through his bureau. “Why, he’s asleep in his bed, lad! It’s well after midnight, Mr. Frodo, and your uncle has been sittin’ with you nearly day an’ night since you took ill.”

“He has?” Frodo said, astounded.

“Aye,” Bell replied with a smile. “I’ll wake him if you wish, o’ course.”

“No! Don’t do that,” Frodo said hastily. “I expect I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“I expect ye shall,” answered Bell dryly. “Now then!”

And before Frodo realized what she was doing, Bell had grasped his sweat-soaked nightshirt by the hem and drawn it swiftly over Frodo’s head. Frodo yelped in self-conscious surprise, reaching hastily for the blanket.

“Aye, you’re on the mend all right, Mr. Frodo,” Bell chuckled, and lowered the clean nightshirt quickly onto her young charge. “But ye needn’t fret; Daisy-lass isn’t anywhere about!”

Frodo put his arms into the sleeves and laid back on his pillow, trying not to blush.

Bell’s laughter softened into a smile as she lifted a glass to Frodo’s lips. “I reckon you’re a mite thirsty about now,” she said kindly.

The boy found that he was indeed dreadfully thirsty, and he drank as much of the honey-sweetened tea as Bell would let him. When she finally lowered him back down to the pillow, Frodo could barely keep his eyes open. He relaxed slowly into the soft familiarity of his bed, and watched Bell gather up the empty cups. When she made to go, however, Frodo stopped her with a hand reaching for her arm.

“Mrs. Gamgee,” the lad said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bell said quietly. She bent down to kiss him on the forehead. “Now get ye back to sleep! You’ll want ta be well-rested for when Sam-lad pays you a visit.”

“I will,” Frodo said, happy at the thought of a visit from Sam, and yawned again despite himself.

Bell paused at the door to smile warmly at the boy in the bed. “Mind ye do, then. I’ll be back later to check you’re asleep!”

Frodo’s eyes were closed before Bell had shut the door behind her, and the exhausted child settled quickly into a deep, healing sleep.

22. New Endeavours

April 25, 1392

Frodo opened his eyes and looked around in confusion. He must have fallen asleep while Bilbo was reading to him. Frodo glanced at the window and smiled. The curtains were mostly open, and he could see the late afternoon sun shining brightly on the garden. His eyes were certainly less sensitive today; he recalled Bilbo saying he would be allowed to read later if he wanted.

Blinking a little, Frodo propped himself up on one elbow and reached for the glass of water that stood on the nightstand. His throat wasn’t sore anymore, but it still felt dry as toast every time he awoke.

The dark-haired lad took a long, slow swallow of the cool water and paused to take a breath. He lifted the glass to his lips again and took another mouthful.

“Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo exclaimed in surprise at finding he was not alone. Unfortunately, the young hobbit’s mouth was still full of water, and the exclamation resulted in a fountain being sprayed into the air.

“Oh!” Sam cried, coming forward from where he’d been standing by the hearth. “I’m awful sorry, sir! I didn’t mean ta scare you!”

Frodo wiped his chin on the sleeve of his nightshirt and smiled sheepishly. “Don’t worry, Sam! I just didn’t see you there.”

“It’s mighty good to see you awake, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, returning the older lad’s smile tentatively.

“I am glad to see you, too, Sam,” Frodo replied, then frowned thoughtfully. “I thought your mum said you might visit yesterday—or did she say that last night?”

“No, sir,” Sam said seriously. “And I did come yesterday afternoon, beggin’ your pardon, but ye weren’t to know it; you slept the whole time, you did!”

“I did?” Frodo echoed stupidly.

“Aye,” Sam answered soberly. “And mighty pale and ill you looked, too, sir, lyin’ there so quiet. I was real careful not to wake you.”

Those wide hazel eyes spoke to Frodo of the days of anxious worry and distress the Gaffer’s youngest lad had suffered. Frodo realized with a pang that Bilbo had worn the same look, yesterday morning when he had come in to see Frodo for the first time since the fever had broken. The dark-haired boy shifted restlessly, uncomfortable with the thought of worrying so many, and cast his mind back to the morning before.

“Frodo!” came a soft exclamation from the doorway.

Frodo turned away from the window and sat up eagerly, a bright smile lighting his pale face. “Hullo, Uncle!”

“How are you feeling, lad?” Bilbo came to sit on the edge of Frodo’s bed. He cupped the boy’s face between his hands and peered intently into his ward’s round blue eyes, as if to verify that Frodo was truly awake and lucid.

Frodo paused to consider his answer. “Hungry,” he said finally.

Bilbo laughed aloud, the clear sound ringing delightedly in the small bedroom.

Frodo wasn’t certain why that should be amusing, but he enjoyed the way the worry seemed to melt from his uncle’s brown eyes as he laughed.

“Well, my boy,” Bilbo said finally. “I can’t say I’m surprised. You’ve scarcely eaten a thing in the last week!”

“Truly?” Frodo said, puzzled. “It didn’t seem that long...”

“What do you remember, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo asked curiously.

“I don’t know... Was Mr. or Mrs. Gamgee here?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said with a smile. “Both were here, at times. That family is quite devoted to you, dear boy.”

Frodo shrugged uncomfortably and looked away. “I think... I think I remember that Mama was here, too...” he said after a pause. “I suppose I was dreaming, but it seemed so real. I know she couldn’t have been here, truly, but-”

He broke off in embarrassed confusion. Bilbo was regarding him with an expression he couldn’t interpret.

“Your mother was a remarkable lady,” Bilbo said finally. “You are entitled to cherish whatever memories of her you have, however they come to you.”

Frodo ducked his head and smiled gratefully. “Mostly I remember that you were here, Uncle Bilbo,” he said slowly. “And I was glad of that.”

Bilbo released a shuddering breath and reached out to rub gentle circles into Frodo’s back. “And I am glad to see you recovering, my dear boy,” Bilbo said with a slow smile. “Now then, I believe you said you were hungry, and I’ve been waiting to hear those words all week. Tell me what you would like, and you shall have it!”

Frodo smiled at the memory and turned back to Samwise. The child was watching him in wide-eyed silence.

“Anyhow, I’m glad I’m awake for your visit this time,” Frodo said lightly. “Now come sit up here with me, where I can see you!”

Sam grinned and clambered up on the bed beside Frodo with no further encouragement needed, much to Frodo’s delight. Frodo waited for Sam to say something, but the child simply sat there, beaming happily at Frodo as though he couldn’t believe the older lad was truly alive and awake and sitting here in front of him.

Frodo cast about for something to say, trying not to let Sam’s worshipful scrutiny unnerve him. His glance fell on his bookcase, and the slate he used for lessons with Bilbo. “Why don’t you fetch me my slate, Sam? I’ll help you practice your letters, if you like.”

Sam looked at Frodo in confusion, but he hopped down quickly and brought the slate and slate pencil to the bed. “I don’t know any letters, beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Frodo,” the child said uncertainly.

“You don’t?” Frodo said blankly. “You haven’t started lessons yet?”

“No, sir,” Sam answered, looking as if he was wondering why he had to explain something so obvious to a supposedly intelligent hobbit like Mr. Frodo. “And I shan’t, ever. My Gaffer and my mum never learnt their letters, nor did Ham, Hal, Daisy, and May.”

“Oh,” Frodo said faintly, turning pink. “Oh...” He felt foolish for making such assumptions, but he had never known any children Sam’s age who were not learning to read.

Sam was watching him curiously, holding the slate pencil loosely in his left hand. The child did not appear to be offended, and the beginnings of an idea began to prickle at the edges of Frodo’s mind.

“May I try to teach you a little, Sam?” Frodo asked. He hurried on when Sam’s jaw dropped. “I’ve never taught anyone before, but there isn’t much else to do while I have to stay in bed.”

Sam’s grip on the slate pencil tightened a little. “Would ye do that, sir?” he asked in astonishment. “I reckon I’d like to try it... My Gaffer said I’m to keep you company as much as you like, while you’re recoverin’.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Frodo said, delighted by the prospect.

Samwise bounced on the bed a little in his excitement. “What do I do, sir?”

Frodo thought for a moment. “Here, I’ll show you something first. Give me your hand-” Frodo took the pencil out of Sam’s left hand and put it in his right. He balanced the slate carefully on Sam’s knee and took the child’s right hand in his.

Sam held his breath in anticipation and watched in wonder as Frodo gently pressed Sam’s fingers around the pencil and began to move Sam’s hand over the slate. Like magic, that pale, smooth hand and Sam’s smaller, rougher one moved in strange patterns on the flat surface. First a long, wavy line appeared on the slate. It reminded Sam of a garden snake, slithering on the ground. Next they made a circle, and a little tail hanging down. The strangest shape of all was the last one; it looked like two bumps, with a line sticking up in front.

Frodo let Sam’s hand go, and together they stared at the three symbols on the slate. Sam squinted at them, brimming with curiosity.

“What’s it mean, Mr. Frodo?” the gardener’s son asked finally, unable to wait any longer. “What did we write?”

Frodo smiled. “We wrote your name! Part of it, anyhow. We wrote ‘Sam,’ in the common tongue!”

Sam went home for supper quite delighted that day, and Bilbo was very interested to hear why, as he sat watching Frodo slowly demolish a tray of steaming mushroom soup, toast smeared liberally with honey, and a glass of apple juice.

“I think it’s a fine idea, Frodo,” Bilbo said thoughtfully when he had heard the tale. “I’ll speak to the Gaffer tomorrow and make certain he has no objections. I can’t imagine he would; if Samwise is going to keep you company while you lie abed, you lads might as well pass the time usefully!”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Frodo said gladly. He finished his juice and laid down with a sigh. Bilbo had brought him a shockingly large amount of food, but he had somehow managed to finish it all. Frodo closed his eyes. This was the first day he hadn’t mostly slept through since being ill, and he was beginning to feel rather exhausted.

Bilbo smiled and set the tray aside. “Mind you don’t let yourself get worn out, Frodo-lad. I know you enjoy Sam’s company, but you must send him away if you find yourself becoming tired.”

“I will,” Frodo promised. He reached up absently to scratch at his hair. It was still matted from the long days in bed, and Frodo was only now recovered enough to find it uncomfortable.

Bilbo noticed his nephew’s discomfort immediately. “Perhaps we can take care of that bird’s nest tonight, my boy,” he said with a wink. “Do you feel up to a good brushing?”

Frodo groaned, imagining how much it would hurt to unsnarl all those tangles. “Not especially, Uncle, but I suppose you’d best do it before it gets any worse.”

“That’s the spirit, lad!” Bilbo exclaimed cheerfully. “Just roll over and I’ll get right to it.”

Wondering how Bilbo could sound so sickeningly jovial, Frodo turned himself onto his stomach while Bilbo fetched his hairbrush.

Much to Frodo’s amazement, Bilbo managed to brush out the thick, dark curls with a minimum of whimpers. The old hobbit was gentle and patient, and Frodo soon found himself sighing in relief.

“There! That’s much better, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo agreed, then yawned despite himself.

Bilbo smiled. “You’ve had a long day, Frodo-lad. What do you say we get you cleaned up and put you to bed?”

Frodo opened his eyes quickly. “It isn’t even dark yet, Uncle Bilbo!”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, and Frodo yawned again. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Bilbo said, eyes twinkling. He helped his nephew stumble to the bathroom, promising to wait outside.

Frodo washed slowly and changed his nightshirt, then stood blinking dully at his reflection in the looking glass. He couldn’t recall seeing himself since before he had been ill. His eyes gazed back at him as blue as ever, but they were dull and bloodshot. His skin was an appalling waxy white, and he looked to have lost weight, as well. No wonder Uncle Bilbo keeps trying to overfeed me, Frodo thought with a flicker of amusement.

At least his hair was in decent condition now. Frodo looked at the dark curls hanging around his face. In the dim light of the bathroom, his hair looked nearly black, but in daylight it was a rich, dark, chestnut brown. Frodo shook his head and opened the door. He wished his hair was a proper hobbit colour, like the Gamgee’s honey-coloured locks, or Bilbo’s light brown. And he surely wouldn’t look so odd if his eyes weren’t that bright blue.

On the other hand... An image of his blue-eyed, dark-haired mother suddenly flashed across Frodo’s mind, and he smiled to himself, enjoying the memory of that dream-visit.

“What are you smiling about, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo asked as he helped his nephew back into bed.

“I was just thinking,” Frodo said. “I’m glad I look like my mother.”

23. A Bump in the Road

May 4, 1392

“Time for luncheon, lads!” called Farmer Cotton cheerfully.

Halfred dropped his side of the plough right away and ran light-heartedly in the direction of the farm house.

“Come on, Ham!” the younger Gamgee shouted over his shoulder. “Mistress Cotton said we’re having... ham today!” He chortled wildly at his own joke.

Hamson Gamgee shook his head in exasperation and straightened up, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. He and Halfred had been helping Farmer Cotton with the late spring planting all day – nearly every day this month, in fact – and Hamson had received more than ample opportunity to appreciate his brother’s jokes. But at present he couldn’t bring himself to begrudge Halfred his silliness; they had all been so morose while poor Mr. Frodo had been ill that it was simply good to hear laughter now.

“Hullo, Tom-lad!” Hamson greeted the Cotton’s eldest child as he came inside after washing.

“Hullo, Ham!” giggled young Tolman Cotton. “Guess what we’re having for luncheon?”

Hamson smiled grimly and reached out to grab the child. If he heard that ridiculous joke one more time...

“Hold on now,” Tom squealed as Hamson tickled him mercilessly. “Mam said-” he gasped for breath “-she said you weren’t ta get me excited-” Tom’s next words were drowned out in a fit of laughter, but eventually he got out, “-because it’ll upset my dig- my dig-”

“Your digestion?” Hamson finished helpfully, setting the child back on the ground. “Well, your mam is quite right. Ye oughtn’t to go about letting folks tickle you right before luncheon, certain sure,” the twenty-seven-year-old hobbit said sternly, making Tom giggle again.

Hamson smiled as he followed the little one into the kitchen. Tom was the same age as Samwise, and Hamson had many memories of the two lads playing together. They hadn’t seen much of each other this spring, unfortunately, as Sam was busy helping the Gaffer, and Tom was now learning the ways of the Cotton farm.

At the table, the eldest Gamgee lad took a seat between Rosie and Jolly Cotton, and across from Halfred. He greeted Mrs. Cotton politely and accepted his plate; sure enough, several thick slices of ham comprised the main course.

The assembled hobbits began to devour their luncheon in cheerful hobbit fashion, with little Nibs getting more food on his clothes than in his tiny mouth. Nick and Jolly weren’t much better, but Rosie applied herself to fork and spoon with a concentration amazing to behold in an eight-year-old.

“We finished with the ploughing right quick today,” Farmer Cotton said, reaching for the butter. “You lads are a mighty big help,” he added with a smile at the Gamgees. “In fact, I think I’d best be giving you both the afternoon off!”

“Oh! You don’t need ta do that, Mr. Cotton!” Hamson protested. Halfred nodded vigorously in agreement. Tolman and Lily Cotton were truly excellent hobbits, an industrious young couple in their early fifties; the hard-working Gamgee lads often felt they were treated far too indulgently by their employers.

The farmer waved off their good-natured protests. “Nonsense, lads! We’re well ahead o’ schedule.”

“Besides,” put in Lily with a smile. “It’s a fine day! And you can take Tom-lad with you. The poor child hasn’t seen Sam in weeks!”

Little Tom wriggled in delight at this prospect, and Hamson laughed. “I reckon we can arrange that, Ma’am,” the tweenager yielded finally.

Halfred’s eyes sparkled at the thought of an afternoon off, and Farmer Cotton grinned and lit his pipe. The little Cottons had finished their food and were clambering down from their chairs to play outside.

Mrs. Cotton smiled at Hamson. “We’ll all miss you when ye go to Tighfield, lad,” she said.

Hamson grinned and looked down.

Halfred’s expression abruptly soured. “That ain’t for another five or six months,” he said quietly, fiddling with his spoon.

“Well, well,” said Farmer Cotton briskly. “Any young lad would be pleased to be apprenticed to Andwise Roper of Tighfield, I should think. Roping’s a fine trade, and I don’t doubt you’ll do your Gaffer proud, Hamson.”

Lily smiled at Halfred sympathetically. Anyone could see the brothers were close, but that was the way of things in the Shire; some lads had to leave home to learn a trade, others didn’t. The farmer’s wife tactfully decided to change the subject.

“What news is there of young Mr. Baggins?” she asked. “Last we heard, he was gettin’ over a nasty bout of the carnelian fever.” Unlike the Gamgees, the Cottons generally had little contact with any gentlehobbits, and only Mrs. Cotton, who ran the family produce stand in town, had ever even seen Frodo.

“Mr. Frodo’s on the mend, but he had ta rest in bed all last week,” Halfred supplied, looking up from his spoon.

“Oh, the poor lad,” Lily said. “He must’ve been dreadfully bored!”

Hamson chuckled. “Aye, I reckon he would’ve been,” the tweenager put in, “except he’s been keeping busy trying to learn our Sam his letters!”

Tolman and Lily stared in surprise. “Good heavens!” Farmer Cotton exclaimed. “Well, I expect it hasn’t done no harm. Sam can’t have learned much in one week, anyway, and Mr. Frodo must be up and about again by now?”

“Aye,” said Halfred slowly. “He’s allowed ta play outside now, but he’s still a mite weak and tires out pretty fast.” Hamson and Halfred exchanged looks. They both thought privately that it was a fine idea to have someone in the family learn to read, but it was a commonly held prejudice among the poorer residents of the Shire (and many of the wealthier residents as well) that no good could come of teaching letters to hobbits who ‘had no business using them.’

Hamson sighed. He was delighted, of course, that Frodo would make a full recovery, but it was a pity that Sam’s lessons could not continue.

“Well,” said Lily briskly. “I’m glad ta hear that fever didn’t take any little ones in Hobbiton this time around. Dreadful business, just dreadful.”

Farmer Cotton grinned and motioned to the door with the stem of his pipe. “Now then, lads, grab little Tom on your way out and don’t waste another minute of this fine afternoon!”

Hamson and Halfred didn’t need to be told twice, and they were soon on their way, with young Tom Cotton in tow. The afternoon was indeed fine; the sky was blue as far as the eye could see, and the sun was shining brightly enough to make coats unnecessary. The Gamgees escorted Tom through town and out the other side; they were soon at the Hill, where they left Tom to find Sam in Bag End’s garden. Their errand accomplished, Hamson and Halfred decided to have a walk in the woods behind the Hill before going home, just in case their mother might find some chores for them to do before they had a chance to properly enjoy the beautiful day...

Gaffer Gamgee rubbed his aching knee and glanced over at his youngest son. They had just come back to work from luncheon, and Sam was toiling industriously in the vegetable garden. Hamfast stretched his throbbing joints and paused to admire the lovely day.

“Why don’t you take off early today, Sam-lad?” the Gaffer said suddenly, feeling a bit soft but wanting his son to have a chance to play.

“Really, Dad?” Sam asked, looking up from the taters.

“Aye,” Hamfast replied. “I can manage by meself this afternoon. Go on, then!”

Sam smiled and got to his feet, brushing the dirt from his trouser legs. “Can I see if Mr. Frodo wants to play, Dad?”

Hamfast clapped his son on the shoulder. “Now now, Sam-lad. You must mind your manners better than that. Don’t you be botherin’ Mr. Frodo unless he sends for ye, all right? Now run down and see if them Twofoot lads are anywhere about, eh?” The Gaffer’s tone was gruff, but he corrected Sam’s presumption as patiently as he did the child’s gardening skills.

“Yes, Dad,” Sam said a little reluctantly. He had seen a great deal of the master’s heir in the last fortnight, while Frodo recovered from his fever, so perhaps it was natural for Sam to get a little presumptuous about his claim on Frodo’s time.

Just then, young Tom Cotton came wandering up the path to Bag End.

“Hullo, Sam Gamgee!” Tom called.

Sam looked up in surprise, then smiled when he saw his friend. “Hullo, Tom Cotton!” He waved quickly to his Gaffer and ran off to join the other boy.

Hamfast smiled and watched the two children disappear back down the walkway. He was glad that Tom had appeared; he knew Sam preferred Tom’s company over the Twofoot boys. The Gaffer got back to work on the taters and was caught by surprise when the side door of Bag End opened a few minutes later.

“Master Bilbo!” the Gaffer exclaimed, seeing the old hobbit in the doorway.

“Good afternoon, Master Hamfast!” Bilbo said cheerfully. “Is Sam about? No? Well, I’d like a word with you, if I may.”

The Gaffer looked at his master in surprise, but laid his trowel down obligingly. Bilbo sat himself on the step in front of the door, and Hamfast waited expectantly.

“I wanted to thank you for letting Sam keep my lad company this last week,” Bilbo began. “I know you must have missed his help in the garden.”

“Don’t mention it, Master,” Hamfast said graciously. “We were glad ta help out in any way.” Indeed, the Gaffer was well aware of what a cheerful little presence his youngest son was; he felt gratified that Sam had done such a fine job of aiding the recovery of his master’s heir, as Bilbo had told him several times already.

“I know you agreed to let Frodo begin to teach Sam his letters while he recovered,” Bilbo went on, and he seemed to be treading carefully now.

“Aye,” the Gaffer said, suddenly a bit wary. It had seemed a harmless enough way to keep young Frodo occupied while he was bedridden, but Hamfast was suddenly sure that he wouldn’t like what his kind but eccentric master had to say next.

“Well, those lessons have of course stopped now that Frodo’s up and about, and I—I believe they should continue,” Bilbo said, watching his gardener carefully.

“Oh, but there isn’t no call for that, Master Bilbo!” Hamfast protested. “And I expect Mr. Frodo has more important things to do with his time now, beggin’ your pardon.”

“I have resumed Frodo’s lessons, Master Hamfast, so he does indeed have plenty to do,” Bilbo said quickly. “I would like to teach Sam myself, is what I meant.”

“You, sir!” The Gaffer stared in astonishment, and slowly shook his head. “Thankee indeed for your kindness, Master Bilbo, but I’m afraid it’s outta the question!”

“Hamfast, please consider it!” Bilbo implored. “From what Frodo has told me, the lad shows great promise, and I believe I could easily teach him to read and write, in good time. All it would take is two or three hours, in the mornings whenever you can spare him. I already have one pupil; it would be no trouble to have another.”

The Gaffer shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Bilbo’s gaze. “T’wouldn’t be proper, sir,” Hamfast muttered. “Cabbages and taters are what Sam needs ta learn, meanin’ no disrespect.”

Bilbo sighed. “I was afraid you would say that, and of course it is your decision.” The old hobbit got to his feet and turned to go back inside. “But if you ever change your mind, the offer stands.”

Hamfast nodded to show he’d heard, and tried to ignore the disappointed look Bilbo gave him just before he closed the door. The Gaffer picked up his trowel again and set to work on the taters. “T’wouldn’t be proper, no indeed,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

24. The Fortress

“I don’t know,” said Prince Folcomir doubtfully. “Isn’t it awfully small?”

“It is,” sighed Captain Frodomir, narrowing his blue eyes thoughtfully. “But we can’t really do any better by ourselves, can we?”

Steward Fredemir kicked disdainfully at the wall of branches that sat propped up against the stump. “If anybody else comes along, we could ask them to help us,” suggested the third Man.

“Good idea, Fatty!” exclaimed Prince Folcomir, grey eyes sparkling. “We’ll keep a lookout, but what should we do in the meantime?”

“That’s Steward Fredemir to you, Prince!” replied Fredemir with dignity.

“A thousand apologies, my lord,” said Prince Folcomir with a ridiculous little bow. The other two Men giggled at his performance.

“I don’t know what we can do about our fortress,” Frodomir said finally, “but perhaps while we await someone to help us rebuild it, we ought to have a feast!”

“A fine idea, Captain!” Prince Folcomir proclaimed with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “But, er, I don’t believe the three of us will fit in our fortress all at once just now.”

Steward Fredemir bent down to peer into the tiny space between the branches and the stump. “Certainly not,” was his verdict.

“All right, then,” Captain Frodomir said, looking around the small clearing they were standing in. “Let’s have our feast out here in the, ah, courtyard!”

“What in Middle Earth is a courtyard, Frodo?” Steward Fredemir asked with a laugh.

Captain Frodomir shrugged. “I think it’s rather like a garden.”

“Perfect,” said Prince Folcomir briskly. “Let’s get to it, then!”

“What do Men eat?” Steward Fredemir asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Captain Frodomir replied. “Wild boars and things, I suppose.”

The three boys looked around for inspiration. “Where are we going to find a good wild boar, Frodo?” sighed Folco.

“How about that little log?” suggested Frodo. Folco nodded decisively and helped Frodo drag their ‘boar’ into the centre of the clearing. All three boys had promptly forgotten their Mannish names, now that they had a task to do.

Fatty’s face fell. “Oh, I thought the boar would be something we could eat!”

Frodo laughed. “Well, when we go home for tea, we can bring some food back with us to make our feast! Let’s just use the log for now, until we’ve made the fortress bigger.”

Folco Boffin grinned at his friend. Frodo’s legendary imagination was downright unhobbitlike, but he certainly was fun to play with. They had been in the woods behind the Hill since luncheon, playing at being Men and trying to build a fort to defend against any invading armies that might be hanging about.

“Oi! Someone’s coming!” Fatty exclaimed, putting down his armful of branches. They had begun gathering more sticks and fallen branches, hoping that they would be able to make a bigger fortress before it was time to go home.

Folco and Frodo paused in their own gathering to look up. Two lasses were coming down the path, sure enough.

“It’s only my sisters,” Folco said dismissively. “Petunia! Celosia!” he called to them.

The girls stopped and looked around, then waved when they saw the three boys in the clearing. Petunia was sixteen, six years younger than Folco, and Celosia was thirteen.

“What are you lads up to?” Petunia called.

“We’re building a fortress!” replied Folco. “You know,” he murmured to Frodo, “They’re not terribly girly, and they might help us if we asked.”

Frodo raised his eyebrows at that and looked curiously toward the path. “Want to help?” he called to the girls.

Petunia and Celosia glanced at each other. “All right,” Celosia said, and the two made their way over.

The three lads showed the girls their tiny fort and explained what they wanted to do.

“The ground is pretty soft here,” Petunia said thoughtfully, poking it with her toe. “We could make an awfully good fort by digging the sticks into the dirt so they stand up on their own, instead of leaning them against the stump. They’re nearly as tall as we are, after all.”

Fatty gasped. “Why didn’t we think of that!”

“’Cause you’re not lasses!” Celosia piped up, nodding imperiously.

“I think perhaps we ought to make her a Princess,” Frodo said under his breath, winking at Folco.

Folco rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage her,” he replied with a grin.

The five children set to work, determined to build the biggest and most impressive fort ever conceived by Hobbiton children. Soon they had an impressive pile of branches assembled; they decided where the walls of the ‘fortress’ should go, and Fatty traced out the lines with one foot.

In short order, branches were being poked into the ground along the lines, and Folco began to imagine what a grand fort this would be when it was finished. They had set the boundaries almost to the edge of the approximately ten-foot diameter clearing; even with five hobbits working, it seemed impossible they would be able to finish this afternoon.

Folco glanced surreptitiously at Frodo, carrying another branch across the clearing. When he and Fatty had come to Bag End earlier to see if Frodo could play, Bilbo had made them promise to bring his nephew directly home if he showed any signs of tiring. Folco took the responsibility seriously; he was two years older than Frodo and five years older than Fatty. He knew how ill Frodo had been, although his friend did not seem inclined to discuss the matter. In any case, it was a warm afternoon in spring, the sun was shining, and Frodo seemed energetic and cheerful thus far.

The first wall was nearly half done when the hobbitlings heard more footsteps on the path. Folco looked up curiously. If it were more children approaching, perhaps they could be convinced to help with the fort.

Frodo looked up too, and smiled when he saw the newcomers. “Hullo, Hamson and Halfred!” he called out.

The two tweenagers halted and looked around in surprise. The clearing was partly hidden from the path by trees.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo!” the older one said when they spotted the children in the clearing.

Folco regarded the tweenagers with interest. He recognized them as the eldest children of Bilbo’s gardener, Hamfast Gamgee, although he had never met them; the Boffins were gentry, like the Bagginses and Bolgers. Still, the prospect of more help for the ‘fortress’ was impossible to ignore, and Folco was always eager to meet new hobbitlings.

“D’you think they’d like to join us?” Folco whispered to Frodo hopefully.

Frodo looked back at him in pleased surprise. “They might at that! I shall ask.”

Fatty overheard their whispered conversation and glared at them disapprovingly.

Frodo hesitantly put down his branch and went over to the Gamgees. “We’re building a fort,” he began. “We could use your help, if you—if you’d care to join us?”

The younger Gamgee, who looked to be about Folco’s age, nodded eagerly. “Come on, Ham!” he said to his reluctant brother. Petunia and Celosia looked up hopefully when they heard that more helpers might be in the offing.

“We’ll be glad ta help, Mr. Frodo, if you and your friends’ll have us,” Hamson Gamgee said at last, perhaps succumbing to the combined effect of hopeful stares from Frodo, Folco, the lasses, and his own brother.

Petunia and Celosia cheered. Frodo introduced the Gamgees to the others, and they all got down to work with renewed vigour. The only one who didn’t seem pleased by the new additions was Fatty, who continued to scowl disapprovingly at Frodo and Folco.

Folco sighed when Frodo quietly asked if he knew what was the matter with the normally easy-going Fatty. “I guess you haven’t been in Hobbiton long enough to find out, Frodo, but Bolgers are known to be rather snobbish toward certain folks.” Folco shifted awkwardly. “Don’t worry, though. Fatty can be a bit of a dunderhead sometimes, but he wouldn’t do anything rude.”

Frodo gazed uncomfortably at Fatty for a moment, but then shrugged and looked down. “Well, perhaps he’ll change his mind when he sees how much help the Gamgees will be.”

Folco smiled and picked up a discarded branch. “Don’t let him worry you, Captain Frodomir,” he said. “Just get us as many helpers as you can, so we can build the best fortress that Men have ever seen!”

“Yes, Prince Folcomir, your highness,” Frodo said with an impish grin, and went back to work.

Within an hour, a group of Twofoot and Gamgee hobbitlings from Bagshot Row had wandered by and been recruited by the enthusiastic fort-builders, with one notable exception. Fatty stiffly informed the group that he was expected at home, and departed. However, Folco and Frodo soon forgot their friend’s unsociable behaviour in the excitement of the newest arrivals.

Sappy and Hobby Twofoot, along with their sister Holly, were rather astounded to see two nearly-complete walls of branches standing in the small clearing, and were easily persuaded to join the fun.

May Gamgee demurred at first, being rather shy around so many gentlehobbits. However, once her admired elder brothers emerged from the woods where they had been collecting more sticks, May’s desire to see this impressive fort completed overcame her reservations. Daisy Gamgee, on the other hand, did not require much convincing; the only obstacle in her path, after Frodo reluctantly invited her to join in, was to cease giggling long enough to agree.

Petunia and Celosia took to Holly, Daisy, and May right away, and the five lasses were soon chattering away happily.

Folco and Frodo were standing near the path soon after when two little lads happened by. Folco stared at them when they paused to gape at the rapidly growing fort through a space in the bushes. They each looked about twelve years old, and wore plain clothing that suggested their families were not wealthy. One had sandy-coloured hair, the other a golden brown. What surprised Folco, however, was that each little face and pair of hands was covered in dark, sticky-looking purple stains.

“Why, Sam Gamgee!” exclaimed Frodo, stepping forward. “Whatever have you been up to?”

“Mr. Frodo!” the sandy-haired child said delightedly, finally noticing Frodo and Folco standing slightly concealed beside the path. “Oh—well, we were pickin’ blackberries, if you take my meaning, sir.”

“And eating them as well, it would seem,” Folco put in, trying not to laugh. He realized that this little sprout must be another of the Gamgee children. Sam shrugged in embarrassment, but grinned at Folco.

Frodo walked up to the children and bent down slightly to address them. “Your brothers and sisters are here, Sam, and we’re building a fortress in the clearing here. Would you and your friend like to help us?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Frodo!” Sam gasped, then looked at his companion. During this exchange, the other child had been staring, slightly open-mouthed, at the silver buttons on Frodo’s waistcoat. “Wouldn’t ye like to, Tom?” Sam prompted his friend.

“Yes... yes!” said Tom, finally coming to his senses.

Frodo looked curiously at Tom, then smiled at Sam and politely introduced him to Folco. “Folco, may I present Samwise Gamgee. Sam, this is Folco Boffin.”

Folco grinned and gave a short bow, which the flustered Samwise attempted to return. “Oh, forgive me, sirs!” the child exclaimed, recalling his manners suddenly. “Mr. Frodo Baggins and Mr. Folco Boffin, I’d like ta introduce Tom Cotton.”

Folco and Frodo both bowed, and Frodo said, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Tom.”

Tom turned red to the tips of his pointed ears and seemed unable to find his tongue, but Frodo took pity on him and ended the moment by taking a sticky little hand in each of his and leading the children into the clearing. Hamson and Halfred took charge of the dirty newcomers and showed them how to take the big sticks off the pile and place them in the earth to add to the neat row that would soon be the fort’s third wall.

Once Sam and Tom were happily at work, the older lads decided to search the edges of the clearing again for more branches. Halfred soon pointed out that they were no longer finding very many; they agreed to split up and search further afield. The lasses showed no sign of ending their conversation, so they were left in the clearing with the youngest lads.

In the woods, Frodo and Folco began walking in the same direction, a few feet apart. They paused within sight of the clearing and began scanning the ground for fallen branches.

Folco laughed when he saw Frodo cast a suspicious glance back at the cluster of girls in the clearing. “Don’t look so worried, Frodo!” Folco said. “Lasses are silly when they get together.”

“When they’re all by themselves, as well,” Frodo muttered, then jumped when a burst of giggling erupted from the clearing. “Look at them! Why do they all stare at me so?”

“Come now, you’re simply being paranoid,” Folco said in amusement. “Maybe if you had sisters, you’d be used to their—”

“Turn around and see for yourself,” Frodo said, then bent down to pick up a branch, hiding a blush.

Folco turned quickly to look back at the clearing. The giggling was only now dying down, and Folco was quite astonished to realize that the lasses did indeed appear to be staring at Frodo.

“Heavens,” murmured Folco. “I wonder what that could be about?”

“Well, I shan’t stand here all day!” Frodo exclaimed, straightening up. “I’m going to keep going. If you want to continue in this direction, I’ll head toward the main road and loop back to the fort.”

“A fine plan!” Folco agreed, and continued on his way, quickly losing sight of Frodo as the distance between them increased.

25. Lessons in Loyalty

Lotho Sackville-Baggins was bored. It was that maddening part of the afternoon; well after luncheon, but still an hour or two away from tea time. Lotho was sitting in his room, at his desk in fact, but he was not reading; he was twirling an apple in his hands and scowling into space. The tweenager had received his education from all the best tutors, of course, but he had little use for scholarly pursuits.

Putting his feet up on the desk, Lotho leaned back and threw the apple against the far wall. It made a gratifying thump and fell to the floor, leaving a dirty mark on the paint. Lotho grunted in satisfaction; the thought that Ted would have to repaint that wall brought a smile to his face.

Leaving the apple on the floor, Lotho got up and stretched. His room was large and opulently decorated, but he sought more interesting amusements. He shrugged on his newest silk waistcoat and wandered out into the parlour. Otho was smoking his pipe, as usual, and listening to Lobelia bemoan their unlucky circumstances, also as usual, while she rearranged the little gold-and-crystal figurines on the mantel.

“I’m going out!” he called on his way to the front door of Sack Top. “Is Sandyman about today?” He planned to wander around town and see what he could get up to, but he wanted Ted with him in case any especially good opportunities for amusement presented themselves. Ted worked most days in his father’s mill, but did chores around Sack Top perhaps three afternoons a week.

“Wait a moment, darling,” Lobelia cooed, coming into the hall. Lotho halted obediently and waited as Lobelia adjusted his sleeve. “You look so handsome in that lovely green waistcoat, dearest,” she sighed happily.

Lotho grinned, although he hardly needed to hear such statements of the obvious. “Thanks, Ma,” he replied nonetheless.

“Ted is giving the front fence a new coat of paint,” Lobelia said, stepping back to admire her big, strapping son. “And mind you don’t give old Mad Baggins an excuse to turn us out in the cold, dear, if you should happen to run into that Bucklander brat of his.”

Lotho smirked. “Don’t worry, Ma,” he said, and stepped outside into the bright afternoon sunshine. Lobelia was referring to the possibility that Bilbo Baggins would call in their debts if any of them harmed Frodo. Lotho’s smirk remained firmly on his face as he scanned the garden for Ted. He would have to be careful to avoid that eventuality, of course, but his Bucklander cousin had caused Lotho to receive a humiliating punishment last Yule, and Lotho would relish any opportunity to have some more fun with the little rat.

“Oi! Ted!” Lotho snapped, finally spotting the object of his search. “Put that brush down. I’m going for a walk on this fine day, and you’re coming!”

Ted scowled and looked away. “Mistress Lobelia wanted this fence finished, sir,” he said irritably.

Lotho knew perfectly well that Ted disliked him; he simply didn’t care. Devoting a moment’s thought to the feelings of a mere servant was beyond half-witted, in Lotho’s mind. In any case, Ted’s family needed the money from Ted’s chores too badly for Ted to want to slight him; he knew Ted had no choice but to obey.

Lotho grinned. Ted could usually be counted upon for some entertainment. “Don’t be insolent to me, Sandyman!” he said, enjoying the surly expression on Ted’s face. “Now get up, I said.”

Ted Sandyman was a rather boorish young fellow who liked to talk more than was good for him, that much was certain. But as long as Ted took care never to talk about Lotho, it mattered not at all.

Ted sighed and tossed his paintbrush into the jar of white paint. He got slowly to his feet and followed Lotho down the walk. Lotho frowned, irritated that Ted wasn’t more deferential in his manners. But no matter; he supposed it was the obedience that was the important thing.

Frodo bent down to pick up another fallen branch. This one was quite sturdy-looking, and about the right length for the fort. He added it to the pile in his arms and looked around. Frodo had been searching nearly twenty minutes now, and he had about all he could carry.

The blue-eyed hobbit adjusted his grip on his load and took a few steps into the woods. He had been searching at the edge of a meadow near a road, perhaps a ten-minute walk from the fort. He had passed Hamson and Halfred a few minutes ago, and both were headed back to rejoin the others. Frodo sighed. He reckoned it was time for him to head back, as well. The fort was nearly finished, and it was almost time for tea. Besides, he was feeling rather weary, and he had promised Bilbo he wouldn’t overtire himself.

Just then, Frodo tripped over a protruding root and sent all his branches flying. “Oh, no,” the young tween moaned, rubbing the toe he’d stubbed. Frodo sighed in exasperation and began picking up his fallen sticks. He became so engrossed in his task that he failed to notice he was no longer alone.

“Hullo again, Bucklander,” a cold, sneering voice said.

Frodo froze, then straightened up slowly and turned around. Lotho the Loathsome, of course.. “Hullo, Lotho,” he said grimly, surmising by the expression on Lotho’s face that his cousin was in a fouler mood even than usual. Frodo felt relieved that the older hobbit was at least alone; Lotho must have been walking on the road and spotted him at the edge of the meadow.

Lotho folded his arms and grinned nastily down at Frodo. “I’ve been hoping to run into you, Cousin,” he said. “You got me into quite a spot of trouble with my parents, you know.”

“I don’t see how the responsibility is mine,” Frodo replied, watching Lotho warily.

Another hobbit came running up the road then, and Frodo wasn’t much surprised to see it was Ted Sandyman.

“Mr. Lotho!” Ted exclaimed, coming toward them and looking apprehensively from Frodo to Lotho.

“Glad you caught up, Ted,” Lotho said, not taking his eyes off Frodo. “It would have gone ill for you if you’d arrived too late to help me.”

Frodo’s heart sank. Lotho had a strange gleam in his eye that told Frodo he was in trouble; Bilbo had said Lotho wouldn’t harm him again, but Frodo was beginning to have his doubts. He had done Ted a good turn last month, and caught carnelian fever in the process, but he somehow knew that the miller’s son would not go against Lotho. Should he make a run for it?

Lotho advanced slowly toward Frodo, and Frodo backed up reluctantly, knowing he was outnumbered.

“It’s all your fault, you little rat,” Lotho snarled. “I thought I taught you a lesson last Yule, but you went and set your old fool of an uncle on us, didn’t you! It’s your fault Mad Baggins made my parents punish me!”

“I did no such thing,” Frodo said firmly. “What has it to do with me if your parents punish you?”

“Everything,” Lotho shouted angrily. “As if you didn’t make enough trouble by conning the old fool into adopting you! I think I need to teach you another lesson, you little monster!”

Frodo set his jaw at the comment about his adoption. He wouldn’t let any Sackville-Baggins, or anyone else for that matter, make him doubt Bilbo again. He had promised, after all.

Lotho continued to advance, and Frodo continued to step back. He had just made up his mind to turn and run for it when he backed into a tree, trapping him in front of Lotho long enough for the older hobbit to grab him by his shirt collar and slam him against the partly moss-covered bark. Frodo cried out when Lotho lifted him several inches off the ground, forcing Frodo to clutch at Lotho’s hands to keep the pressure off his neck.

“Release me at once!” Frodo got out, but Lotho laughed at his cousin’s discomfort, clearly enjoying himself now that he had the upper hand.

“Mr. Lotho,” Frodo heard Ted say reluctantly. “You mustn’t! Mistress Lobelia will be so angry; you know what she said about Mr. Frodo!”

“Shut your mouth, Ted,” Lotho snapped. “You’re stupider than a stone. Now come over here and hold his arms!”

Ted shifted uncomfortably, but made no move to approach. “I—I can’t do that,” he said, avoiding Frodo’s eyes as well as Lotho’s. “I’ve gotta go, Mr. Lotho.”

“Don’t you dare,” Lotho warned, but Ted was already turning to flee.

Frodo struggled against the rough bark, trying in vain to kick Lotho. “Help me!” he implored Ted’s departing figure, but Ted merely hunched his shoulders irritably and went on.

Lotho grinned. “No one’s going to help you, brat. You should’ve gone back to Buckland when I gave you the chance.” Frodo renewed his efforts to reach the ground with his feet, or at least to give Lotho a good kick, but it was hopeless. He wasn’t strong enough to shake Lotho’s grasp.

A crackle of underbrush somewhere behind the tree alerted Frodo that another hobbit was approaching, and he craned his neck to see. Lotho’s grip on his collar loosened slightly as the older hobbit turned his head to look, too, and Frodo slid down a few inches against the trunk of the tree, the rough bark digging uncomfortably into his back.

Frodo sagged in sudden relief. It was none other than Hamson Gamgee. Hamson was twenty-eight, the same age as Lotho, and easily the same size. Lotho wouldn’t dare hurt him in front of Hamson, would he?

Frodo’s eyes widened in surprise as Hamson stepped forward. The gentle, even-tempered gardener’s son gazed at Frodo briefly in surprise and concern, and then turned his brown eyes on Lotho in a way Frodo had never seen before. He looked... well, threatening. Frodo knew that Hamson was fiercely protective of his younger siblings, but he had certainly never thought to see that expression of wrath used on Frodo’s own behalf.

“Let Mr. Frodo go, you hear?” Hamson said. The words were spoken quietly.

“This is none of your concern, Gamgee,” Lotho spat, with a contemptuous glance at Hamson’s plain, homespun shirt and trousers.

“I’m afeared I can’t agree, sir,” Hamson said in that same quiet, dangerous voice. He took another step toward where Lotho held Frodo against the tree. “Now let him go.”

“This brat needs a lesson, and I’m going to give it to him,” Lotho retorted, tightening his grip on Frodo’s collar and pinning him forcefully to the huge trunk once again. “This little maggot is no more than a common Bucklander pretending to be a Baggins. His parents drowned each other in a river and left their worthless son to burden their relations.” Lotho grinned at Hamson’s shocked expression. “None of your concern, as I said.”

Frodo squirmed uselessly against the tree, clutching at Lotho’s hands and fighting to see through the boiling rage that tunnelled his vision. Lotho had told an appalling and despicable lie about Frodo’s parents, but now Hamson would surely leave in disgust.

A moment later, Frodo watched with astonished fascination as a pair of strong, work-roughened hands came up and clamped firmly around Lotho’s wrists. Frodo didn’t even realize how hard Hamson was squeezing until Lotho gasped in pain and let go his hold on Frodo.

Hamson caught Frodo before the younger hobbit could fall to the ground, and pulled him by the elbow a few steps away. Frodo tugged his collar back into place and struggled to steady his breathing. There was a giddy feeling of safety with Hamson’s hand still grasping his arm reassuringly; Frodo wondered if this was how it felt to have an elder brother.

“How dare you?” Lotho exclaimed in flustered humiliation, clutching his sore wrists. “I—I wasn’t really going to hurt him, you cretin! He just needed a good scare.”

“I don’t reckon he needed either,” Hamson said coolly.

Lotho’s fists clenched as he moved toward Hamson. Frodo quickly found himself pushed back another step when Hamson stepped nearly in front of him. For a moment it looked like Lotho might try to grab him again, despite the warning in Hamson’s eyes, but then another hobbit walked quietly out of the woods.

Halfred Gamgee took in the scene for a moment. His normally cheerful face slowly set in a grim scowl, and he went to stand beside his brother and Frodo. Hamson gave Frodo’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and Frodo drew a deep breath, knowing that Lotho would still seek to do as much damage as he could.

Lotho folded his arms, furious at the interference. He surveyed Frodo and the two Gamgees with mounting resentment; his lip curled in disgust when he saw Halfred shoot a worried glance at Frodo.

“I’ve never seen a sorrier lot than the three of you,” Lotho drawled. “This miserable excuse for a Baggins. And two nasty, dirty rustic simpletons who don’t know their place, and whose parents have more worthless spawn than they can afford!”

Hamson and Halfred tensed, and Frodo felt wretched for them. “Hold your tongue, and keep your vile thoughts to yourself!” Frodo said furiously, blue eyes blazing. He knew his cousin well enough by now to realize that Lotho was as quick with his tongue as with his fists and would get much pleasure from insulting the Gamgees, who were far too well-mannered to respond in kind.

“What’s the matter, Cousin?” Lotho sneered. “Haven’t you any friends besides your dirt-grubbing servants?”

“They’re not my servants,” Frodo said evenly, fixing Lotho with an icy blue glare. “And I should be honoured if they considered me a friend.”

Lotho grinned nastily. “All right, Bucklander. What did you pay these two to protect you, then?”

Frodo stared at the smirking tweenager, completely flabbergasted. Did Lotho think Frodo had bribed the Gamgees to defend him?

Hamson answered for him. “Mr. Frodo paid us nothing, an’ he owes us nothing, if ye take my meaning,” the older lad said with quiet dignity. “We’d best be on our way now.” The tweenager gently turned Frodo toward the woods before Lotho could reply. Halfred moved to follow.

Frodo glanced back only once as he and the Gamgees were swallowed up amongst the trees. Lotho was standing still in the meadow, looking honestly baffled by Hamson’s words.

Hamson herded them along for a few minutes, but they stopped to rest once they were deep in the woods. No one said anything for a long moment.

“I must thank you both for your kindness,” Frodo said quietly.

Hamson and Halfred looked up in surprise. “That ain’t necessary, Mr. Frodo,” Hamson said gently.

“It is,” Frodo disagreed. “And I apologize for Lotho’s shameful insults to your family.”

“That’s not your fault at all!” Halfred exclaimed, and Hamson nodded in agreement.

“He is my cousin,” Frodo said dryly. “I feel somewhat responsible.”

“I can scarce believe you’re even related,” Halfred muttered.

Frodo slowly grinned at this, feeling oddly pleased.

“We oughta get back to the fort,” Hamson said presently. “I reckon it must be nearly finished by now.”

The fort was indeed nearly finished when the three lads returned. The Twofoots seemed to have already gone, as well as the Gamgee lasses; the remaining girls were off playing by themselves, but Folco, Sam, and Tom were putting the last branches of the fourth wall in place.

“Well, and about time!” Folco called when he saw them. “Say, didn’t you three find any more branches?” He stared incredulously at their empty arms.

“Of course we did!” Frodo replied. “But we, er... lost track of them.” Hamson arched an amused eyebrow at him, and Halfred snorted.

Folco looked puzzled for a moment, but then shrugged. “No matter. Those Twofoot lads gathered practically enough to build a whole other fort before they up and ran off. Look, we’re done! I told the little ones to leave that gap there; I figured we might want a door.”

Sam emerged from the ‘door’ just then and ran over to join them. He wrapped his small brown arms around Halfred’s legs. “Don’t it look just like a Men’s castle, Mr. Frodo?” he said, looking at Frodo with shining brown eyes.

Frodo smiled and surveyed the uneven rows of sticks poking out of the ground, forming a rough square in the clearing. “I feel sure it does, Samomir,” he said firmly. “Shall we go inside?”

Sam giggled in delight at Frodo’s use of his Mannish name and led the others into the fort to join Tom. Frodo was glad when Hamson and Halfred didn’t comment on the odd name; he had avoided reference to playing Men once so many others had arrived to join himself, Folco and Fatty. He was afraid Hamson and Halfred were too old for make-believe, and he hadn’t wanted to involve the lasses, wishing to hide the fact that he didn’t know any Mannish names for ladies.

“You’ve got moss in your hair, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said suddenly, staring at the back of Frodo’s head.

“Oh! Have I?” Frodo said. He supposed that was from the tree trunk Lotho had held him against.

“You mustn’t go home like that, sir,” Sam said matter-of-factly, and started to briskly comb the offending plant matter out of Frodo’s dark curls with his fingers. “Master Bilbo would be right horrified.”

“Well, you know best, Sam,” Frodo said with a smile.

Folco laughed, but Sam merely nodded firmly and finished brushing the moss from Frodo’s hair.

“You’re more than a mite filthy yourself, Sam-lad,” Hamson commented as the six lads came out of the fort and made ready to go home. “You’d better go dust yourself off afore the Gaffer sees you! And don’t dawdle; we’ve still to take Tom home for his tea.”

“I can do that,” Folco offered. “The Cotton farm isn’t far off my way. That all right with you, Tom?”

Tom nodded eagerly.

Folco took the child’s hand and looked at Frodo. “Are you coming back after tea, Frodo?”

Frodo started to nod, but then changed his mind. “I’d better not,” he said, realizing suddenly how exhausted he was. This was the first time he had stayed out all afternoon since his illness, and he already felt weary enough to go to bed.

“Right,” Folco said, and waved cheerfully as he set off with Tom. Hamson and Frodo waited on the path while Halfred dragged Sam off to shake out his clothes.

Frodo watched thoughtfully as Hamson leaned against a tree to wait for his brothers. “I shall miss you when you move to Tighfield, Hamson,” the younger hobbit said.

Hamson looked up and smiled warmly at Frodo. “It’s been a right honour to know you, sir,” he said simply. “An’ I hope you’re aware, Mr. Frodo, that if you ever have need o’ help, you may call on any of us Gamgees.”

Frodo, feeling quite flustered, could only bow in reply to such a compliment.

A slightly less dusty Sam and a slightly more dusty Halfred rejoined them at that moment. “You look awful tired, Mr. Frodo,” Sam exclaimed worriedly, taking the older lad’s hand and tugging him along. “We must get ye home ta rest!” Frodo followed obligingly.

“...and especially Samwise,” Hamson grinned, adding to his earlier statement, and Frodo laughed. They were extraordinary, these Gamgees.

26. The First of Many Parties

The next several months passed peacefully in Hobbiton. Bilbo had been furious to hear that Lotho had tormented his nephew again, although he wasn’t surprised the tweenager had stopped short of beating him; the old hobbit had no doubt that Lotho wished to avoid being skinned alive by Lobelia for antagonizing Bilbo, after he had threatened to call in all their debts last Yule. Nonetheless, Bilbo’s protective ire was aroused, and he saw to it that Lotho suffered a just punishment.

In any case, Lotho did not bother Frodo again that spring or summer. Indeed, he seemed to avoid his younger cousin whenever possible. Frodo, however, found himself quite indifferent on the matter; Hamson Gamgee had humiliated Lotho with his kindness and loyalty, and Frodo feared him no longer.

Frodo had been rather hurt to find that Fatty Bolger wouldn’t play with him anymore after that day at the fort, but Folco received this development philosophically.

“Let it be, Frodo,” he advised after Fatty had rebuffed them the second time. “As I said, Bolgers are often a bit stuffy, and Fatty’s dad is worse than most. He’s always thought your uncle a peculiar sort, and no doubt he’s influenced his son. Fatty’ll come around, or he won’t, but it’s naught to concern yourself with.” Fatty had informed them he wasn’t going to play with any Bagginses now, on account of their ‘unseemly notions.’

Nonetheless, that first summer at Bag End was remembered fondly by Frodo. The weeks were filled with long, beautiful days of warm sunshine and light breezes. Frodo soon became a familiar figure around Hobbiton; he was a quiet but cheerful little soul, kind and well-mannered. In the taverns and markets of the area, hobbits began reluctantly to admit that perhaps Mad Baggins was capable of raising a child, even if he was a bit cracked.

Frodo did not often go into town, however, except on errands. He preferred to pass the time reading in the garden, or in the woods and meadows near the Hill, and having imaginary adventures with Folco (or Sam, whenever his Gaffer would spare him), often involving the magnificent fort in the woods.

Frodo began to wish he could go on a real adventure, like the ones in Bilbo’s stories, or at least like the trips Bilbo had often taken around the Shire before Frodo’s adoption. But Bilbo maintained that he was too young for a long journey on foot, much to Frodo’s disappointment. Bilbo’s warm brown eyes always seemed to twinkle when he said that, however, which somehow gave Frodo hope for delightful things to come.

Summer drew to a close, and all over the Shire, hobbits began their annual harvest. Markets soon overflowed with food, and pantries began to fill with stores for the winter. Cured meats, jars of preserves, sacks of grain and flour and sugar, all were neatly stacked or shelved in the larders of the Shire, and Hobbit minds whirled with thoughts of food. Well, more so than usual, anyway.

In Hobbiton, September 22nd was always a major social event: Bilbo Baggins liked to throw a good party on the occasion of his birthday. But in 1392, that particular day heralded a bigger event than ever, for it was the first time Bilbo’s and Frodo’s birthdays were celebrated together. The festivity was proclaimed outstanding by one and all (with the exception of the Sackville-Bagginses, of course), for various reasons. Forefront in the guests’ minds was, naturally, the victuals. No expense was spared in that regard; food and drink were plentiful and of the finest quality to be had in Hobbiton.

For Frodo, the best part of the celebration was the happy knowledge that his favourite ‘uncle’ was there to share it with him. The tween had never attended, let alone been given, such a party, and found it rather overwhelming. He couldn’t recall ever in his life receiving so much attention, whether on his birthday or not. There had even been some talk of Saradoc and Esmeralda making the journey to Hobbiton with Merry, but in the end, Saradoc’s responsibilities had kept the Brandybucks at Brandy Hall.

On the day of the party, however, Frodo was not overly disappointed by Merry’s absence; he had more than enough to occupy him as it was. In fact, once the speeches had been given and the cake served, Frodo decided he’d had quite enough of the lively chatter, the squealing children, and most especially the seemingly endless supply of elderly relations who hardly knew him but nevertheless insisted on pinching his cheeks and exclaiming over his ‘sweetness’ in a most nauseating fashion. Frodo watched carefully for his opportunity and slipped away unnoticed from the head table as the fourth round of cake was served and the guests became absorbed with ‘filling in the corners.’

“Why, Frodo Baggins! Wherever are you going to in such a hurry, lad?”

Well, nearly unnoticed. “Good evening, Aunt Dora,” Frodo said reluctantly. “Are you enjoying the party?” He had crept stealthily around the nearest tent, the baker’s tent at the edge of the party field, only to run right into Dora Baggins, a peppery but absent-minded matron of ninety years.

“Indeed I am, young fellow,” she said, eyeing Frodo shrewdly as he shifted from foot to foot. “The cake was first-rate, and Bilbo had the decency to keep his speech short and sensible for once. Do I dare hope your presence in his home has shamed the old bird into growing some proper hobbit-sense at last?”

“Er, perhaps,” Frodo said evasively, grinning at the thought. The direction of influence was rather the reverse, if anything.

“Hm,” Dora sniffed, staring at the fidgeting blue-eyed hobbit with poorly-concealed amusement. She continued to talk for a good while, and Frodo soon realized that he would never make his escape at this rate; Dora Baggins apparently had an endless array of topics for conversation at her disposal.

“I, ah, noticed you seemed a trifle disappointed when you came out of the tent a moment ago, Aunt Dora,” Frodo said a little desperately, during a lull in the (mostly one-sided) conversation. “Were you looking for something, perhaps?”

“Why, I have mislaid my spectacles!” the venerable lady said, snapping her fingers in sudden recollection. “I thought I might have left them here in the baker’s tent, but I can’t find them anywhere.”

“I believe I saw them on your chair at table, ma’am,” Frodo supplied helpfully. He bounced on his toes and smiled sweetly, anticipating certain escape.

“Oh! You marvellous boy!” the matron exclaimed. With surprising swiftness, Dora reached forward to grasp Frodo by the cheeks, pinching the soft flesh so firmly that his mouth was stretched sideways. “What a dear you are! I must go at once and be sure no one has sat on them.” She released Frodo and hurried away at last.

As soon as Dora’s back was turned, the twenty-four-year-old hobbit ran gleefully out into the night. He slowed to a walk as he approached the edge of the party field, rubbing resentfully at his sore, over-pinched cheeks. He consoled himself with the thought that were it not for his brilliant distraction, Dora would likely have remembered to drag him back to the table with her.

It was after ten o’clock by this point, but as most hobbit festivities did, this one would last well into the night. Frodo walked around behind the tents a bit, enjoying the crisp September air and listening to the low roar made by a throng of hobbits conversing at the top of its lungs.

As Frodo passed the dishwashing tent further back, he heard a familiar childish voice singing shrilly and slightly off-key, but with great enthusiasm. Frodo grinned and stuck his head inside the tent.

“Hullo, Sam!” he said to the small figure bent industriously over one of the wash basins.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam dropped his scrub brush in the basin and turned to beam at his master’s heir. He was alone in the tent, finishing up the last of the supper dishes. “Oughtn’t you to be out there at the party, sir?”

“I suppose so,” Frodo replied, and came to lean against the table beside Sam. “But I’d much rather be in here talking to you.”

Sam wiped his soapy hands on his trousers looked at Frodo incredulously. “Indeed, sir?”

“Most definitely,” Frodo said, blue eyes twinkling mischievously in the lantern light. “For one thing, you’re not very likely to grab me by the face and give my cheeks a pinch!”

Sam giggled at the ridiculous suggestion. The younger lad had received such treatment often enough from his Aunt Primrose, and he could feel a definite sympathy for the other boy. “I shall do me best to resist the urge, Mr. Frodo,” he said sincerely.

Sam cheerfully picked up his scrub brush again and Frodo, laughing helplessly, sat down to keep the gardener’s son company awhile longer.

“What’s it like bein’ twenty-four, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked at length. “Do ye feel any different now?”

“Oh, it’s marvellous,” Frodo replied with a straight face. “When I awoke this morning, I found that I suddenly, er, knew all the tales recorded in Uncle Bilbo’s books!”

Sam looked astonished for a moment, but then glared at him suspiciously.

“And not only that,” Frodo continued, trying not to smile, “but I grew a whole three inches last night!” He got to his feet and strode briskly back and forth a few times, as if to demonstrate.

“You’re havin’ me on, sir,” Sam accused, but he climbed down from his stool at the washbasin and came to stand directly in front of Frodo. “Why, I still come up ta your collar, just as I did yesterday!”

“Well, so you do, Sam!” Frodo exclaimed, feigning surprise. He couldn’t seem to resist having a bit of fun with Sam tonight. “I must’ve been mistaken, I expect.”

Sam laughed, finally catching on to Frodo’s teasing, and took up his scrub brush once more. “I do wish the first part had come true though, Mr. Frodo,” the sandy-haired child said with a wistful sigh. “Then I might hope that one day I could know all o’ Master Bilbo’s stories somehow.”

Frodo could think of no reply. He knew his uncle had offered to teach Sam to read, but the Gaffer had refused to allow it. Frodo could never tell Sam all this; knowing how close he had come to learning his letters and reading those stories for himself would surely break the lad’s heart. Frodo couldn’t bear to think any further on this topic, so he asked Sam about his new little patch of vegetable garden at Bagshot Row.

27. Arrangements

September 25, 1392

By the evening of the third day after the party, life at the Hill was essentially back to normal. In Number 3, Bagshot Row, thoughts turned once more to Hamson’s departure, for the eldest Gamgee child was expected in Tighfield by early October.

Hamfast Gamgee paused in the doorway of Number 3, Bagshot Row, smiling fondly at his eldest son. He was terribly proud of the lad, although he would never dream of saying so. The Gaffer took care not to spoil any of the children, never mind Bell’s exasperated insistence that none were likely to spoil, and Hamson least of all.

The Gaffer grinned to himself, thinking of the wry amusement in Bell’s voice whenever she scolded him for his ‘ridiculous’ notions. A grand lass was Bell Goodchild. He had scarcely believed his good fortune when she’d declared she would have him. Always had seen through his gruff exterior, had Bell.

“Something the matter, Da?” the object of his earlier musings interrupted him. Hamson was staring curiously as he hefted the axe with which he had been chopping firewood.

“Nay, Hamson,” Hamfast replied, chagrined at being caught wool-gathering. He was a plain, sensible hobbit, and he didn’t hold with daydreaming. Such things were best left to the gentlefolk, like Mr. Bilbo, bless him.

Hamson grinned and wisely said nothing. He set another log upon the block for splitting and wielded the axe with the ease of long practice.

The Gaffer watched approvingly. Hamson was too serious for his own good sometimes, but he was a sensible and reliable lad. He had grown big and strong, and he was more than ready to learn a trade. Hamfast had delayed as long as he could sending Hamson to Tighfield—the apprenticeship had been arranged nearly three years ago—although he would certainly never admit to being influenced by anything so foolish as sentiment. But perhaps he could be forgiven a trifle of regret at the imminent departure of his first-born...

“I had a message from your Uncle Andwise today, lad,” Hamfast said after a few moments. He had gone to the postmaster to have it read that very morning.

“Oh, aye?” Hamson swung his axe again, and another log split neatly in two. The tweenager nodded to himself in satisfaction. “What does he say, Da?”

“All is set for your arrival,” Hamfast said with a sigh. “Andy and Emerald are expectin’ ye within a fortnight. Your cousin Anson has been ill, seemingly, but all’s well now.”

“How shall I get there, Da?”

“I expect I can get ye passage with the post, or perhaps one o’ the merchants, Ham,” the Gaffer replied. He stepped fully outside and settled on the bench for a smoke. Dusk was deepening rapidly, but Hamfast did not fail to notice the slight smile that Hamson wore. The lad was happy to be going, that was clear enough. And why not? He was young and active, nearly of age and eager to make his own way in the world.

Hamson put away his axe and stacked the week’s firewood neatly beside the door.

“That’ll suit me fine,” the tweenager said, still wearing that far-off smile. The Gaffer could not say the prospect pleased him, but he was glad to see his son so ready to embrace new challenges.

“I know ye’ll work real hard for your uncle, and do me right proud,” Hamfast said gruffly around the stem of his pipe.

Hamson sat down beside his father. “I won’t disappoint you, Da,” he said seriously.

“Ye never have, lad,” the Gaffer muttered aloud, without quite meaning to.

Father and son sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. They could hear Sam and Marigold playing in the sitting room, and Bell telling them it was bedtime.

“I do wish—” Hamson burst out suddenly, then stopped, fingering the cuff of his sleeve awkwardly.

“Aye?” the Gaffer prompted when the tweenager did not continue. Hamson was a quiet lad, and when he spoke his words tended to be well thought-out.

“I do wish ye’d reconsider lettin’ Master Bilbo learn Sam his letters,” Hamson finished softly.

Hamfast glanced at his son in surprise. “No good comes of getting’ mixed up in the business o’ your betters, Ham. I thought ye knew that. Sam’s business is taters and cabbages, and that’s a fact.”

“I know, Da, but I wish—” Hamson broke off.

“It’s the way o’ things, Ham,” the Gaffer said with an air of finality. “It’s no use wishin’ things were different. Sam-lad learnin’ ta read from fancy books wouldn’t do anyone no good, himself least of all.  We Gamgees have gotten along just fine so far, and I won’t have Sam gettin’ above his station with such notions. Goodness knows it’s hard enough keeping that lad’s head outta the clouds as it is, with Master Bilbo and now young Mr. Frodo filling it with tales o’ dragons and such.” Hamfast shook his head exasperatedly at the thought of his eccentric masters up the hill.

Hamson grinned and got to his feet, hastily straightening the cuff he had been fidgeting with. “Well, I shan’t change me mind, Da. I still wish it ta be different. But good luck to ye keepin’ Sam’s head out o’ the clouds!”

The Gaffer chuckled and followed his eldest son into the smial. Hamson would certainly be missed.

September 28, 1392

On a bright, busy morning nearly a week after the party, Hamfast Gamgee found himself standing awkwardly in the Hobbiton dry goods shop, speaking with one Largo Bracegirdle, a merchant from Waymoot.

“Aye, I pass right through Tighfield,” Largo said, eying the Gaffer speculatively. “I’m away to Bywater on the morrow, but I’ll be back this way in four days’ time.”

“And do ye take passengers very often, sir?” Hamfast inquired, trying to ignore how the merchant’s gold buttons shone importantly on his waistcoat.

“Oh, certainly,” Largo assured him with a wink. “I often have two or three at a time. I’ve plenty of room for your boy, and I’ll give you a fairer price than the post will.”

Hamfast had already inquired and found that sending Hamson to Tighfield by post would cost three silver coins, a significant sum even for a hobbit of some means, which Hamfast was certainly not. The postmaster himself had suggested one of the local merchants. Largo Bracegirdle was not very well known in Hobbiton, but he had been doing business in this part of the Shire for many years and was known to take passengers fairly often. He had a reputation of safe and timely delivery of both goods and passengers, and the postmaster had known of no complaints.

“Right then,” Hamfast replied. “What of the fee, Mr. Bracegirdle?”

Largo fingered the chain of his pocket watch thoughtfully. “Shall we say... two silver, five copper?”

“I’m not a wealthy hobbit, sir,” the Gaffer replied, continuing the age-old tradition of hobbit bargaining. “I’ll give ye two silver even.”

Largo nodded and gave a slight bow. “Very well, sir, I accept,” the merchant said. “I’ll have a contract drawn up and bring it by early in the morning before I leave. I’ll come for the boy October the 3rd. Will that suit?”

“Aye, I reckon it will, thankee,” Hamfast answered. It was still a considerable expense, but the Gaffer had known it would be.

Hamfast and Largo parted company, and Hamfast headed out of town, for he was due to start work up at Bag End in a few minutes.

September 29, 1392

Sam was just rubbing the sleep from his eyes when he heard the sounds of a wagon coming to a halt in front of Bagshot Row. He hurriedly finished dressing and ran out, past his noisily chattering siblings in the kitchen, to press his nose against the round window in the front room. The little boy squinted into the fresh dawn light. He could just make out a squat, hobbit-shaped figure hopping down from the wagon, holding something in his hand, seemingly. The stranger came a little closer to the window when he walked around to tether his pony, and Sam saw that he was quite old, perhaps nearly middle-aged, and rather well dressed.

“Who’s that, Mum?” Sam called, finally giving in to his curiosity.

“Get your nose off the glass, lad, or it’ll stick there,” Bell admonished him. Sam hastily pulled his face away from the window. Once he had gotten over his relief that his nose was still firmly attached to his face, he realized that his mother had not answered his question.

“Mum?”

“I don’t know him, love. Now come help me put breakfast on the table.” Bell had come up behind him and was peering out the window herself, although Sam noted that she did not risk her nose by leaning too close to the glass.

The strange hobbit outside had finished tethering his pony by now, and to Sam’s amazement he made straight for the door of Number 3.

“He’s come, Hamfast,” Bell said quietly, for Sam’s father had just come in to the front room.

“Aye,” was the Gaffer’s only response.

Sam looked curiously from his mother to his father. They both looked a little sad, he thought. He didn’t see any reason why they should be, really. The arrival of a visitor was a terrifically exciting event, after all; Sam could barely contain himself, hopping from foot to foot in anticipation.

The chatter in the kitchen died down as a resounding knock at the door echoed round the smial.

The Gaffer opened the door, and the intriguing stranger stepped inside.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Gamgee,” said the visitor. “Mrs. Gamgee,” he added, catching sight of Bell. He did not acknowledge Sam, half-hiding behind his mother’s skirts.

“Thankee for comin’, Mr. Bracegirdle,” was the Gaffer’s polite reply.

“Can I get ye a cup o’ tea, sir?” Bell inquired courteously.

“Thank you, no,” Largo Bracegirdle answered. “I’ve only got a minute, only a minute; I’m due in Bywater by second breakfast, but I have your contract right here.” He motioned to the official-looking roll of parchment in his hand.

Hamfast led Largo to the kitchen table, where the document was soon laid flat. Bell went to stand by the stove, her expression unreadable. Sam joined his brothers and sisters, crowded against the opposite wall, watching wide-eyed as their father sat down in front of the sheet of cream-coloured paper covered in little black marks. Sam thought he recognized the snake-shaped one that Frodo had told him was the first letter of his name, all those months ago when Frodo had been ill.

“I think you’ll find this is all in order,” Largo said cheerfully. “Two silvers even, as we agreed, and I shall convey your lad safely to Tighfield. Just make your mark here” he pointed to a long line at the bottom “and you may pay me the 2nd of Winterfilth, the evening before the journey.”

Sam was startled by Largo’s words; he hadn’t realized before that this was all about Hamson’s departure. Was that why his mother looked sad? Sam wasn’t really sure what it all meant, but it seemed terribly serious and important. Marigold and May looked as confused as he felt, but Daisy and Halfred wore the same guarded expression as Bell. Hamson was the only one who seemed himself, Sam decided. His eldest brother looked quiet and calm as always.

Largo had removed a pen from his coat pocket, and dipped it swiftly in the inkwell he had just unstoppered. The Gaffer accepted the proffered pen and made a broad “X” on the line Largo had indicated.

“Excellent,” Largo said, smiling. He put away his pen while the ink dried, then rolled up the parchment again and bowed to Bell. “Thank you for the use of your table, ma’am. Pleasure doing business with you, sir, absolute pleasure.” And Sam thought he did indeed look quite happy.

Largo made a hasty exit, muttering again about needing to get to Bywater, and Bell silently resumed setting out breakfast. Proper hobbits through and through, the Gamgees set about demolishing their food as usual, but Sam couldn’t help but notice everyone was unusually quiet. He supposed it was because Hamson was going away soon. But Sam couldn’t imagine what life would be like without Hamson, and he quickly gave up trying, focusing instead on buttering his sixth slice of toast.

28. Beware of Bracegirdles Bearing Bargains

October 2, 1392

Frodo Baggins was walking briskly along the dusty lane south of Hobbiton. He had been invited to tea by Folco Boffin, and now he was on his way home. Frodo enjoyed these solitary walks; it gave him the opportunity to pretend he was off in some distant corner of Middle Earth, having an adventure with Bilbo, or with Merry or Sam.

The autumn sky was a beautiful pale blue, but a cold breeze blew forcefully, ruffling Frodo’s dark curls and making his coattails flap against his legs. Frodo turned around to look behind him and paused to admire the swirl of fallen leaves caught in an updraft. He did enjoy a good, brisk breeze.

Frodo continued along the road, gazing curiously at the corn fields that spread out to his left. He could not recall which hobbits worked the farms along here, although he was certain Bilbo had told him once.

After coming round a bend, Frodo encountered a rather unusual bump in the road: there was a very small hobbit lass sitting in the middle of the lane, placidly removing petals from a wildflower and putting them carefully in her apron pocket. She had curly light brown hair, and, beneath her heavily starched apron, a dress that might have been red before it got covered in road dust.

Frodo glanced around quickly but could see no adult nearby, so he walked over to address the child. “Er, hullo,” he said when the little girl looked up. “Are you lost?”

The child shook her head and resumed dismantling the flower in her chubby hand. Frodo noticed she had several others in another pocket, ready to receive the same treatment, presumably.

“What’s your name, lass?” Frodo persisted.

The little girl looked at Frodo finally, but didn’t seem perturbed by the presence of a tweenager she did not know. “Rosie,” she said at last, then went determinedly back to work on the hapless flower.

“Do you live nearby, Rosie?” Frodo asked, hoping she hadn’t wandered very far.

Rosie nodded her head without looking up.

Frodo sighed, wondering how he was to get the information he needed. “Do your parents know where you are?” He received only a perplexed look. “How old are you?” He was shown eight chubby fingers for an answer. Well, eight certainly wasn’t old enough to be wandering about alone.

“Can you show me where you live, Rosie?” Frodo asked finally.

Rosie looked regretfully down at the wilting, partly de-petalled stem in her hand.

“You may bring that with you,” Frodo assured her hastily. “Here, I’ll even help you with... er, whatever it is you’re doing.”

Rosie got quickly to her feet at this generous offer and handed Frodo a slightly crushed flower from her pocket.

Frodo stood staring at it for a moment, wondering what little Rosie could have against the cheerful blooms, and then he was seized by a small, chubby hand and dragged impatiently up the road.

They turned into a lane on the left and walked up a distance before Rosie halted and pointed to a hobbit working in the field, his curly hair just visible over the rows of corn.

“Is that your father?” Frodo asked the child.

Rosie looked at him as though he were the biggest simpleton she had ever seen. The little girl nodded slowly.

Frodo grinned a bit self-consciously. He remembered Merry well at this age, but he was certain his cousin had never been quite so... disdainful.

Well, no matter. “Good day, sir!” Frodo called to the farmer in the field. The hobbit looked up, surprised, and made his way over to Frodo.

“Good day, er—?” The farmer, a brown-haired fellow of about fifty, looked curiously at Frodo.

“Oh—Frodo Baggins, at your service,” Frodo said with a quick bow.

“Tolman Cotton at yours,” the farmer replied, regarding Frodo with heightened interest. “What can I do for ye, young fellow?”

Frodo looked down, expecting to see Rosie, but found no one there. “I—Oh! There she is!” Rosie was a few steps away, having spotted, growing at the edge of the lane, yet another flower to dismember.

Farmer Cotton looked in the same direction and caught sight of the child. “Rosie-lass! Did you wander away from your ma again, you naughty girl?”

“I found her down by the road there, and didn’t know where she belonged,” Frodo explained.

“Aye, she’s one of ours,” Farmer Cotton said, scooping up the little girl and tickling her. “Thankee kindly for bringin’ her back,” he continued as Rosie shrieked with laughter. “My Lily has four littl’uns to keep her busy up at the house, and this young lass seems to like wandering off!”

“It was my pleasure,” Frodo replied politely.

Farmer Cotton was still watching him with interest, and Frodo remembered uncomfortably that his adoption by Bilbo was still an intriguing subject for discussion among the denizens of Hobbiton. Just as the farmer opened his mouth to ask something, three more hobbits emerged from the field. Frodo recognized the first as young Tom Cotton, and the others were Hamson and Halfred Gamgee.

Frodo greeted the Gamgees and Tom, and when he found out that the workday was over and the Gamgees were walking home, he agreed immediately to walk with them.

“Have ye got an admirer, Mr. Frodo?” Halfred asked innocently when they were back on the road to the Hill.

Hamson was looking at his brother in disapproval, but Frodo laughed out loud when he realized he still had Rosie’s flower clutched in his hand. “Here, you take it, Halfred,” Frodo retorted mischievously. “I really think Rosie meant it for you.”

“Thankee, Mr. Frodo.” Halfred accepted the crumpled bloom with a solemn bow. “But I reckon it belongs ta Samwise, rightfully. He’s hated that lass for years, ye know, and this might heal the breach.”

“Truly?” Frodo said, surprised. “Rosie seemed a pleasant enough child. What began the dislike?”

“Got molasses in his hair, she did,” Halfred nodded sagely. “A nasty great gob of it.”

“Was it an accident?” Frodo asked curiously.

“Goodness, no!” Halfred replied with a smirk. “Cute as a button is Rosie, but rather a nasty temper, if ye follow me.”

Frodo laughed as Halfred made a show of tucking Rosie’s flower safely away in his coat pocket. Hamson looked shocked by his brother’s presuming to joke with Frodo in such a forward manner, but the eldest Gamgee quickly collected himself when he realized that Frodo was not at all offended.

“Are you packed and ready for your trip, Hamson?” Frodo asked, sensing it was time to change the subject.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I reckon,” Hamson replied.

“Lovely weather for a journey to Tighfield,” Frodo said, thinking enviously of the potential adventures Hamson would have. “I’ve never been, but I hear it’s a good road. When do you leave?”

“On the morrow,” Halfred said grimly, answering for his brother.

Frodo looked at the younger Gamgee sympathetically for a moment, realizing suddenly that not everyone was as enthusiastic about the impending departure as Hamson was. “I haven’t any brothers of my own, but I expect if I did, I wouldn’t much like it when they went away,” Frodo said finally.

“Nor do I,” Halfred mumbled, but he smiled gratefully at Frodo.

“Well, you’ll soon have other matters ta think about, Hal,” Hamson said, also smiling at Frodo. “You see, Mr. Frodo, Farmer Cotton has agreed to apprentice Halfred here—” he proudly clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder “—and teach him all there is ta know about farming. He said he’s never seen a young hobbit with such a knack for tendin’ crops.”

Frodo congratulated Halfred, who was turning red to the tips of his ears. Frodo wished he could have congratulated Hamson as well, for he did not fail to notice the eldest Gamgee’s skilful distraction of his brother.

A few hours later, most of the Gamgees were sitting around the front room, waiting for Largo Bracegirdle to come and collect his silver.

Hamson, however, was in the narrow bedroom shared by the three lads, putting the last of his possessions into his bag. He stared musingly into its depths. He supposed it wasn’t much to show for twenty-seven years, but he was not displeased. Some personal articles, his winter coat and gloves, his three shirts and his extra pair of trousers. Most of the space was taken up by the packet of food his mother had prepared for the five-day journey.

“Are ye thinkin’ up some last words of advice for me, Ham?” Halfred teased, having come in unnoticed.

Hamson grinned and pretended to consider the matter. “Aye, that I am,” he said finally. “And here they are: Take good care o’ your younger siblings. Includin’ Mr. Frodo.”

Halfred laughed. “I wonder what Mr. Frodo would say if he knew you were sitting here callin’ him one of us!”

“I reckon Mr. Frodo would like it all right,” Hamson replied with a smile. “You’d be more concerned with what our Gaffer would say, if you knew what was good for ye.”

“What our Gaffer would say about what?” asked a new voice. Hamson and Halfred looked up to see that Daisy had just wandered in.

“Why, about you laughin’ like a ninnyhammer every time you catch a glimpse o’ poor Mr. Frodo!” Halfred said cheerfully.

Daisy sniffed in distaste. “I’ll have ye know I haven’t done that in ages!” she informed them huffily.

“A month is reckoned to be an age, now, seemingly,” Hamson said to Halfred conversationally.

“Well, I’m not a silly little girl anymore,” Daisy said. “I have me dignity ta think of now, and all!”

Halfred grinned. “That means she’s finally learned that if she doesn’t giggle like a halfwit, Mr. Frodo won’t run the other way,” he said to Hamson. “At any rate, not nearly as often,” he amended, straight-faced.

“You wait ‘til ye need another button sewn on, Halfred Gamgee,” Daisy said threateningly.

Just then, the three children heard a loud knock at the front door, and scrambled quickly back into the main room (the prospect of a visitor being too exciting to miss).

“Good evening, good evening!” Largo Bracegirdle said genially to the assembled hobbits in the front room of Number 3, Bagshot Row. “All ready for your travels, young fellow?” he added when he caught sight of Hamson ducking in from the back room.

“Yes sir, thankee,” Hamson replied politely.

“Glad to hear it. And a fine journey you shall have, my boy,” Largo said enthusiastically before turning to address the Gaffer. “Now, my good sir, I believe we have just the one little matter to settle.”

“Aye,” the Gaffer replied steadily. Bell went to the mantle and took down a small stone jar, which she handed to her husband. Hamfast carefully removed the lid and reached inside with two work-roughened fingers. He drew out two silver coins and handed them to Largo. “I reckon that’s all in order, sir,” Hamfast said gruffly.

Largo took the silver and fingered it slowly. Then he looked up at Hamfast with a perplexed expression on his doughy face. “My dear sir, have you forgotten the terms of our contract?” he said smoothly. “I’m afraid I require the full amount this evening, Mr. Gamgee.”

“I—what’s that you say?” the Gaffer asked, startled.

“The full amount, sir,” Largo pressed. “Four silver coins, as we agreed.”

“Four silver!” Hamfast thundered. “I agreed ta two only, sir!”

“Why, I wouldn’t possibly have agreed to such a low fee,” Largo said very slowly, as though he was concerned the Gaffer didn’t understand him. “I’m afraid you have it all wrong. Perhaps it slipped your mind?”

“I haven’t forgotten what ye said,” Hamfast growled. “I remember ‘two silver,’ clear as day.”

“I’ve the contract right here, if you desire verification.” Largo produced the document with a flourish and laid it out on the table. “Is this not your mark, Mr. Gamgee?” Largo gestured to the ‘X’ on the line at the bottom.

“Aye, it’s mine,” the Gaffer said grimly.

“Yes, exactly. And this contract states that you owe me four silver coins, to be paid tonight. You may have someone you trust read it to you if you wish, but I’m afraid the contract is binding.”

Hamfast Gamgee glared at the merchant, grinding his teeth furiously. He picked up the small money jar and stowed it safely in his pocket. The look of quiet triumph in Largo’s eyes was more than enough to tell the Gaffer he’d been had, and it made his blood boil.

“Very well, sir,” Hamfast ground out. “I know someone who can read this ta me, if you’d care to accompany me.”

Largo looked surprised but nodded agreeably. He rolled up the contract and followed Hamfast out the door. The Gaffer marched straight up the path to Bag End and boldly rang the bell, too angry to worry about propriety, but not too angry to hope that it would be young Frodo who opened the door. The thought of his employer knowing of Hamfast’s humiliation was not to be borne.

29. Goodbye, Hamson

After a moment, the door was opened by one Frodo Baggins, who gaped in astonishment at the two unexpected visitors before suddenly recalling his manners.

“Good evening, Master Gamgee,” the lad said politely, then his curious blue eyes drifted to Largo.

Hamfast did not want to utter the wretched merchant’s name again, but he would not be guilty of rudeness to his master’s heir. “This here is Largo Bracegirdle,” the Gaffer said.

Largo and Frodo bowed to each other, and no one seemed to notice that Hamfast had forgotten to introduce Frodo.

“I’m sorry ta trouble ye, Mr. Frodo,” Hamfast continued, “but I must ask... a favour.”

Frodo looked as surprised as though the Gaffer had said the sky had just fallen, and Hamfast didn’t blame him. No doubt the lad had never heard Hamfast ask a favour of anyone, as indeed he never did if he could help it.

“Why, of course,” Frodo replied finally, despite his confusion. “My uncle is napping, but I will help if I can.”

“You’ll do just fine, thankee,” the Gaffer said, relieved that Bilbo needn’t hear the ensuing conversation. “It shan’t take but a minute. I need something read aloud, is all.”

Largo produced the contract obligingly and handed it to Frodo with a patronizing air. “There you are, boy,” he said with a smile.

The dark-haired tweenager cleared his throat hesitantly and unrolled the parchment.

“I, Hamfast Gamgee, the Undersigned,” Frodo read in a clear voice, “do solemnly swear to pay to Mr. Largo Bracegirdle the Sum of Four Silver Coins, Shire currency, in exchange for the Service of giving to one Hamson Gamgee a Safe and Rapid Passage from Hobbiton to Tighfield. I freely Agree to pay this Sum no later than the Second of Winterfilth, year 1392, and to hold myself Subject to Legal Action if I fail to uphold this Contract. Signed the 29th of Halimath, 1392, and Witnessed by Mr. Largo Bracegirdle, Waymoot.”

Hamfast ground his teeth but said nothing. What more could be said? The contract only confirmed what he had already known.

Largo was standing there, looking nauseatingly apologetic, and the Gaffer turned contemptuously away from him to address Frodo.

“Thankee kindly, Mr. Frodo,” Hamfast said to the perplexed boy. The Gaffer had no intention of inflicting his personal problems on his master’s heir a moment longer than necessary, and therefore did not offer to explain.

“You’re very welcome, Master Gamgee,” Frodo replied uncertainly. He made to hand the document back, but was interrupted by the arrival of Bilbo himself, much to Hamfast’s dismay. He hated the thought of his master knowing what a fool he had for an employee.

“Frodo-lad, is there someone at the door?” the old hobbit called just before he walked into the foyer. “Ah! Master Hamfast!” If Bilbo was surprised by the appearance of his gardener and a stranger on his front stoop, he was too well-bred to show it.

“This is Mr. Largo Bracegirdle, Uncle,” Frodo said quickly, and handed the contract to Bilbo before Hamfast could stop him.

Bilbo raised his eyebrows and quickly skimmed the parchment. “Ah, I believe I understand the situation,” he said at last, brows drawing together. “Four silvers is a rather exorbitant sum, Mr. Bracegirdle.”

“Nonetheless, it’s all in order, sir,” said Largo brusquely. “A perfectly standard contract, and legally binding, of course.”

Hamfast shifted uncomfortably. He was beginning to wish most fervently that he had not been so impulsive as to bring his private financial affairs to the attention of his masters.

“Quite so,” Bilbo said stiffly, and drew the Gaffer to one side, out of Largo’s hearing. “I can guess what happened, Hamfast,” he said quietly to the Gaffer, “but I’m afraid this fellow’s right. You’d better pay, or he can bring legal action against you. Will you permit me to give you an advance on your salary?”

“No, thankee, sir,” Hamfast said stiffly. “That shan’t be necessary.” He dug two more silvers out of the jar in his pocket and handed them to Largo, trying not to show how humiliated he felt, and also trying not to notice that the jar was nearly empty now. But it was enough to last his family until next pay day, and he wouldn’t compromise his dignity any further by accepting an advance.

“Right!” said Largo briskly, his good cheer completely restored. “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Gamgee. A real pleasure. My driver and wagon will come for your boy at dawn tomorrow, all right?”

Hamfast nodded silently, his face set in a grim mask, but Bilbo had more to say.

“There may be nothing to be done about this nasty bit of business, Mr. Bracegirdle,” the old hobbit said sharply, “but I think you’ll find it rather harder to trade in Hobbiton after this, if I have anything to say about it.”

“And who might you be, good sir?” Largo replied evenly, clearly unconcerned.

“I beg your pardon,” Hamfast said, smiling in grim satisfaction at his earlier omission. “I forgot ta make introductions. Mr. Bracegirdle, allow me ta present my employer, Mr. Bilbo Baggins, and his heir, Mr. Frodo Baggins.”

Largo was rather flustered then, and made his farewells hurriedly. Bilbo might be reckoned a bit of a nut in Hobbiton, but the name of Baggins still commanded a great deal of respect throughout the Shire.

“Thankee, Master Bilbo,” said Hamfast miserably. “I’m right sorry to’ve involved ye. And young Mr. Frodo.” The Gaffer was a proud hobbit, and this whole business was dreadfully mortifying.

“Frodo,” the old hobbit said to his nephew, who had been standing awkwardly just inside the door. “Why don’t you go and set the table for supper, all right?”

“Yes, Uncle,” the lad said, and turned to go. Then he paused and looked at the Gaffer. “Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was a Bracegirdle before she wed, you know, Mr. Gamgee,” he put in expressionlessly.

“That don’t surprise me in the slightest, young master,” Hamfast replied, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from quirking up.

Frodo grinned fleetingly and ducked out of sight into the kitchen.

Bilbo halted the Gaffer’s escape with a hand on his arm. “My offer still stands, Hamfast,” the old hobbit said steadily. “About teaching Sam his letters. Please do me the courtesy of thinking it over once more.”

Hamfast glanced at his master’s concerned face and looked away quickly. Pride wasn’t an easy thing to swallow, but the knowledge of how it had weakened him in his dealings with Largo made it perhaps taste a little less bitter going down.

“When can ye start, sir?”

October 3, 1392

Before the first weak rays of dawn sunlight warmed the Hill, the entire household of Number 3, Bagshot Row, was awake and swarming about like a disturbed nest of ants.

“Mum says ta hurry up or you shan’t have any breakfast!” May said, putting her head in the doorway of the lads’ room and ducking out just as quickly. Hamson grinned and calmly finished buttoning his shirt.

Bell Gamgee liked to send such messages, to keep her children ‘on their toes’ as she liked to put it, but whether Bell thought her children could believe she would withhold food from them, no one could really say.

Sure enough, when Hamson came into the front room, he was hustled to his seat by an impatient Marigold, and he was quite certain he had never seen such a breakfast in his life. Bell piled his plate with sausage and bacon, fried eggs and ham, berries and cream, potato pancakes with honey, and a generous dollop of whipped butter.

“The lad needs a proper meal ta begin such a journey,” Bell said to the Gaffer a trifle defensively.

Hamfast raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t say a word, Bell-lass!” he protested as the Gamgee children set to with gusto.

Hamson ate as greedily as any of them, for it was not often they saw such a lavish spread. He wondered with a pang if his Aunt Emerald of Tighfield ever did such marvellous things, and quickly suppressed the thought.

All too soon, the meal was finished and the Gamgees were standing in a quiet group by the road. Dawn was just creeping through the chill autumn air when a familiar wagon rolled up through the mist and halted at Bagshot Row. Largo Bracegirdle was sitting on the front bench with a young hobbit of about 30, who held the pony’s reigns. The rear of the wagon was taken up mostly by cargo, but there were two benches behind the front one and another passenger, a middle-aged lady with a kind face, already occupied one of them.

Today Largo was all concerned diffidence to a stony-faced Hamfast, but the young driver of the wagon was friendly as he stowed Hamson’s small canvas bag in back. Then the wagon was ready to go, and the three already aboard politely turned their heads while Hamson said his goodbyes.

The tweenager hugged his parents first, then little Marigold, who promptly burst into tears. Bell scooped her up quickly and hurried into the smial without looking back. Hamson kissed May and Daisy and gave Halfred a firm hug. He heard rapid footsteps behind him as he bent to hug Sam, and turned around to find Bilbo and Frodo hurrying down the Hill.

“Oh, excellent, we’re not too late,” Bilbo exclaimed. “Just wanted to wish this young fellow good luck.” The wealthy old hobbit shook Hamson’s hand vigorously, much to the lad’s discomfiture.

Frodo grinned awkwardly and handed a small box to Hamson. “It’s candy,” the younger lad explained. “I made it myself, but you may grow desperate enough to enjoy it sometime.”

Hamson laughed and thanked Frodo, touched by his thoughtfulness.

“Good journey, Hamson,” Frodo said quickly, extending his hand.

“Take care of yourself, sir,” Hamson replied, taking the proffered hand warmly.

Then it was really time to go, and Hamson noticed Samwise gazing up at him, his hazel eyes wide with unshed tears. He bent and picked up his youngest brother, hugging Sam so fiercely that the child squeaked.

Hamson set Sam down and ran over to the wagon before he could lose his nerve. He swung himself up behind the middle-aged lady, and at a word from Largo to the driver, the wagon set off.

Hamson turned around only once, trying to memorize the sight of the Hill, and Bagshot Row, and the assembled hobbits who had gathered to bid him farewell. Then he faced forward again, not wanting to watch his family vanish in the early morning mist.

Once Hamson was out of sight, no one said anything for a long minute. Sam bit his lip, determined not to cry in front of Bilbo and Frodo. He was a big lad now, nearly thirteen, and he wouldn’t dream of causing his family embarrassment.

Sam missed the questioning look that Bilbo threw the Gaffer, but he did his best to put aside his misery in Hamson’s absence when he realized his Gaffer was speaking to him.

“Go with Master Bilbo now, Sam-lad,” Hamfast said gruffly. “You’re ta help me in the garden after luncheon, but this morning you’ll take lessons from Master Bilbo.”

It took Sam several seconds to process this, and then his jaw dropped open as he stared at his father. “Truly, Da?” he gasped, hardly daring to believe he’d heard correctly.

“Be a good lad and mind your manners,” Hamfast said sternly. “I’m expectin’ ta hear you’ve made good progress learnin’ your letters and all.”

Sam ran and hugged his father, too happy to speak, and then turned to face Bilbo and Frodo, both of whom were smiling.

“Come, Samwise,” Frodo said, taking the child’s hand. “We’re to have our lessons together nearly every morning!”

This bit of news definitely seemed too good to be true, and Sam’s mouth popped open again as Bilbo and Frodo led him away up the Hill.

The Gaffer turned to Bagshot Row to prepare his gardening tools for the day’s work, and found Bell standing in his path, for she had come back outside in time to hear the conversation.

As Halfred, Daisy, and May filed inside ahead of him, Hamfast cast about for some sort of explanation about the merits of having someone in the family who could read contracts.

“You’re a good fellow, Hamfast Gamgee,” Bell said, interrupting his thoughts. She was clearly trying not to smile, but her hazel eyes sparkled madly. “Stubborn as a tomato stain, ye are, but good.” After a quick glance around to be sure the children were all inside, she grasped the Gaffer’s homemade shirt collar and kissed him soundly on the lips, much to that hobbit’s delight.

30. A Rampaging Oliphaunt

To the surprise of no one, Samwise proved to be a diligent student and an enchanting pupil. He tackled every task Bilbo set him with the same fierce determination he employed in his gardening chores with the Gaffer. Frodo delighted in helping him practice and in answering his incessant questions, and Sam was soon reading simple passages in Westron and progressing every day in his understanding and vocabulary.

Indeed, Sam made remarkable progress in his gardening lessons as well. He showed such a particular aptitude for the care of flowers that within the next several years, the Gaffer, suffering increasingly from arthritis, found himself turning over care of most of the flower beds at Bag End to Sam.

The rest of the Gamgees, for the most part, carried on as before. Halfred was apprenticed to Tolman Cotton and found that farming agreed with him very well. Hamson, by all accounts, was getting along splendidly away over in Tighfield. He returned to visit his family only once in the first three years of his apprenticeship, but he had messages sent by post several times each year, which Sam was soon reading aloud for his proud family.

Frodo, for his part, felt quite at home after a few years in Hobbiton, and he enjoyed his quiet, comfortable life with Bilbo. His bookish tendencies, already considerable, flourished under Bilbo’s influence, as did his liking for adventure. It did not take Frodo long to draw every detail of Bilbo’s famous exploit from that hobbit, or at least every detail that Bilbo was willing to admit, and the tenacious lad never tired of hearing the story, much to his uncle’s amused exasperation.

Before long, Bilbo began to go for jaunts about the Shire, as he had done of old, and he brought Frodo along if the trip was to last more than a day or two. These were the times Frodo loved most of all, for his uncle always seemed to sparkle more brightly when they were travelling. At home, Bilbo remained a devoted guardian, but he would often get out his magic ring or sword or other souvenir of his adventure, and would seem to become lost in thought.

It was perhaps because of such behaviour that around the time of late winter, 1395, folks began to say that Bilbo’s age was at last catching up with him. Frodo did not hold with this supposition at all; Bilbo had turned 104 years old the previous September, which was well into old age (hobbits did not generally live to be older than 120 or thereabouts, and the average lifespan was reckoned to be only 100 years), but he was just as spry and quick-witted as ever.

In appearance he looked hardly more than middle-aged, to the great frustration of those already jealous of the bountiful (and presumably undeserved) treasures he had come home with decades ago. The only outward sign of his advanced age that Bilbo displayed were curls that had gone a distinguished grey.

When Bilbo and Frodo were out travelling the Shire together, no one who observed them could doubt that Bilbo was just as sharp as ever. He always seemed to come alive out on the road; he liked to keep up a brisk pace, and his brown eyes would sparkle with happiness as he sang walking songs or told Frodo tall tales.

But at home, the old hobbit spent most of his days locked in his study, ‘working on the book.’ This was the same book Bilbo had been working on when Frodo first arrived at Bag End, and Frodo was at a loss to explain why the writing of it should take so many years. Frodo did not resent his uncle that passion for finishing the book, but he did not really understand it, and Bilbo could not seem to explain it.

In any case, by 1395, Frodo was twenty-six years old and beginning to have his own affairs to occupy him. Having lessons together several mornings a week had strengthened the bond of friendship between Frodo and Samwise, and Frodo was always happy to include the younger lad in his afternoon activities, on the rare occasions that the Gaffer released his son to such frivolity.

Frodo and Sam liked to go apple picking together, after Frodo taught a very hesitant Sam to climb trees, or to go playing in the little babbling brooks that ran through the woods back of the Hill. They never went down to the Water where the river was deep enough for swimming; Sam shared the disapproval of swimming and boating common among the sensible folk of Hobbiton, and Frodo, although he had learnt to swim like any other Buckland child, had disliked that pastime for many years. Bilbo had once asked his nephew about this very un-Brandybuck aversion, but Frodo could not explain how the feeling of river water rushing around his body brought back vague and frightening memories of his parents that sometimes tormented him still.

Frodo did not have a large number of friends; the local young hobbits were not as wary of anyone associated with ‘Mad Baggins’ as some of their parents were, but Frodo was naturally quiet and retiring in manner and did not seek the companionship of many. Those that he did choose to spend time with, such as Samwise and Folco Boffin, tended to be very loyal friends indeed. His old friend, Fredegar Bolger, continued to avoid associating with Frodo; Fatty’s father disapproved of Frodo’s intimacy with the Gamgees, and had decreed that Frodo was no more respectable than old Mad Baggins. Fatty had been instructed to have nothing more to do with Frodo, which saddened the young Baggins, but that had been several years earlier and he had grown to accept it.

On this particular day in early March, 1395, Frodo had brought Sam out walking with him, for the day was fine and Sam had been released from his duties that afternoon. It was too early in the year for apples, but the lads found themselves among the wild apple trees that grew along the Overhill Road nonetheless. Even without fruit, these trees held an attraction for a pair of hobbitlings out for some excitement; they were the best climbing trees in Hobbiton. This was according to Frodo, who as far as Sam could tell had climbed them all.

“Let’s go a little further along the road, Sam,” Frodo urged, jumping down from a branch to join the gardener’s son lying in the grass. “I know there are trees with lower branches just past the mill.”

Sam stretched and sat up. “If ye say so, Mr. Frodo,” the younger lad said doubtfully. Frodo had been hunting for a tree with branches low enough that Sam could try climbing without the need of a boost from Frodo, but had met with little success so far.

The fifteen-year-old hobbitling packed up the picnic basket philosophically, for he knew that Frodo was determined to make a climber of him, and Sam couldn’t bring himself to object. Sam thought it would be rather exciting, after all, to be able to climb trees as Frodo said the Elves sometimes did. And then, of course, there was the autumn to look forward to, when Sam would be able to harvest as many wild apples as he could carry, if only he could climb up there on his own.

“Will ye have another o’ May’s cup cakes, sir?” Sam asked, rummaging through the remains of their picnic luncheon.

“Why Sam, I’ve already eaten seven!” Frodo exclaimed, crouching down beside the younger lad. “Your mother isn’t still attempting to fatten me, is she?”

“She says ye look as if a good stiff breeze would blow you over, if you follow me Mr. Frodo,” Sam said matter-of-factly, eyeing his companion as though concerned about the gentle gust that was currently rustling the trees above them. “You really oughta eat more, sir.”

“Uncle Bilbo says I eat more than even a growing tweenager has a right to,” Frodo said with a smile. Indeed, despite Bell Gamgee’s scepticism, Frodo had a healthy appetite for a young hobbit; it was hardly his fault he had grown taller but was still too slender for Bell’s liking.

Sam grinned. “I told her I’ve seen ye eat, sir, and she has naught to worry over, but she doesn’t seem ta care. I think she just likes worryin’ about you, Mr. Frodo.”

“Well, we have four cakes left. I shall eat two if you eat two. Would that satisfy your mother, Master Samwise?” Frodo offered.

“Aye, that it would,” Sam decided quickly, and the lads quickly despatched the remaining cup cakes before setting off in the direction Frodo had indicated. They passed some younger children playing in the road, mostly residents of Bagshot Row, and Sam greeted several of the little Greenhands and Goodchilds. The path twisted and turned a little, and then they were among another grove of apple trees.

“Here we are!” Frodo exclaimed, his blue eyes lighting on a tree that grew beside the road, its longer branches extending far enough over the road to provide shade to any passing hobbit or pony.

Samwise, looking up, thought Frodo’s chosen tree was enormous, but the branches split off from the trunk quite low down, and Sam gamely went forward.

“Just remember what I showed you,” Frodo advised, stepping back to give Sam room.

Sam nodded and attempted to get onto the lowest branch. He slid back down with a frustrated grumble.

Frodo waited silently while Sam tried two times more, but then he spoke to bolster the younger lad’s concentration. “Come on, Sam! Think of all those delicious apples you’ll collect in the autumn!”

Sam’s mouth watered at the thought, despite the fact that he had eaten a very large luncheon not fifteen minutes ago, but he found the prospect motivating enough to put in a bit of extra effort.

“Well done, Sam!” Frodo cried, and Sam looked down in surprise to realize that he was straddling the branch; Frodo was still standing five steps away and clearly had not needed to help him.

An hour later, if someone travelling on the Overhill Road had happened to look up at a certain point, he would have seen two very odd looking birds perched in the tree over his head, occasionally shouting to each other something about Elves and chortling loudly. The sandy-haired one had ventured no higher than the fourth branch from the ground, although he had moved along it until he was directly over the road. The dark-haired one was much higher up, but not as close to the road.

It was thus that a traveller did eventually find them, or would have, had he thought to look up past the brim of his enormous hat.

“Look, Mr. Frodo!” Sam said, endeavouring to speak in a whisper loud enough to carry up to Frodo, but not down to the stranger. “There’s a fellow comin’ with a wagon and pony!”

Frodo peered down at the road, squinting to see through the gaps in the leaves. Sure enough, a wagon was rattling slowly along, heading south toward the Hill. The figure slouched in the front seat was obscured by a vast blue hat, but Frodo realized even from this angle that he was too large to be a hobbit. A Man? The blue-eyed lad was not particularly concerned; anyone travelling so far within the borders of the Shire in broad daylight would not be out to make trouble. Big Folk were rarely seen by hobbits of the Shire, however, and Frodo was so curious he could hardly stand it.

“It seems like he might be a Man,” Frodo whispered down to Sam. “I intend to climb down and have a closer look!”

“A Man?” Sam gasped, crawling forward a little to see better. “And what’s that enormous beast pullin’ the wagon, sir? Why, that’s no pony! It looks like a—”

It looked like a dappled grey pony to Frodo, except much larger. He didn’t get the opportunity to say so, however, for Sam’s curiosity had led him to crawl out too far, and the branch supporting him had snapped!

“Sam!” Frodo exclaimed, horrified. Sam fell with a cry straight into the back of the Man’s wagon, making an enormous racket in whatever he had landed upon.

Just as the Man turned around in surprise, the enormous pony reacted to the commotion and bolted down the road, jerking the reigns out of the unprepared Man’s hand.

Time seemed to slow down as Frodo climbed down to the ground as rapidly as he had ever done. The wagon was disappearing around the corner as Frodo reached the side of the road, but he sprinted after it without thinking, his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Help me!” he heard Sam cry. “An old Man is stealing me!”

Frodo might have laughed had the situation been less dire, for he doubted very much that was the fellow’s intent. But he did not know the Man, and he was worried for Sam as well as the little ones playing in the road no more than a minute away, directly in the rampaging animal’s path.

Running as hard as he could, Frodo caught up to the wagon at the part of the road that twisted and turned. The animal had apparently been forced to slow down by the sharp curves, for it was whinnying in panic and darting skittishly from side to side as Sam yelled in fear and the Man, who Frodo now saw was quite old, spoke strange words to the animal in a deep, commanding voice.

Frodo had handled many ponies in his years at Brandy Hall, and without further thought he ran around the beast and snatched up the ends of its reigns from the ground where they had trailed. He evaded the enormous stamping hooves with true hobbit agility, but no sooner had the boy gotten a grip on the reigns than the beast took off again, plunging headlong around the bend and dragging Frodo off his feet.

Frodo lost his grip and scarcely noticed that the dirt road burned and scraped his knees and tore at his trousers and shirt, but he succeeded in regaining his feet a moment later and hurried to seize the reigns again when the animal encountered another sharp turn and was forced to slacken its pace. Frodo could hear the young hobbit children playing in the road just ahead now, and his panic gave him extra strength. Before the beast could bolt again, Frodo wound the reigns between both his hands and dragged the animal’s head around as hard as he could.

The brute whinnied loudly, but was forced to turn aside to follow its head, and came at last to a halt. Frodo sighed in relief and handed the reigns back to the Man, who gathered them up and jumped down from the wagon to calm his animal.

Frodo, finally catching his breath, promptly forgot the Man and hurried to lift Sam down from the wagon, his hands shaking as the crisis passed. “Are you quite all right, Sam? Did you hurt yourself when you fell?” the older lad asked in concern.

“I’m just fine, Mr. Frodo. I’ve got naught but a bruise or two,” Sam huffed. “That fellow has a lot o’ strange things in there, if ye follow me.”

“They broke your fall,” Frodo deduced in relief.

“And you, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked anxiously. “Are ye hurt? You’ve skinned your knees something fierce, and I don’t wonder! You grappling with that great beast and all!”

“Don’t worry, Sam,” Frodo said, wincing as he felt his abraded skin. “They’re just scratches.”

“All the same,” Samwise exclaimed. “Did ye see that monster? He’s huge as a—an oliphaunt! I’d bet my breakfast he is an oliphaunt, sir!”

Frodo stared at the younger lad. “I don’t think that’s an oliphaunt, Sam,” he said, and then he looked up to see the Man had approached without their noticing. The ‘oliphaunt’ was standing quietly, looking like a completely different animal, and the Man was watching Frodo and Sam curiously.

“I am dreadfully sorry, little ones, and relieved to see you are not seriously hurt,” the Man said. His voice was low and rumbling, and Frodo thought he sounded kind. “I am deeply in your debt, my boy,” he said, inclining his head to Frodo before turning to Sam, grey eyes twinkling, “and I can assure you, young fellow, I had no plan to steal you!”

Sam blushed at being addressed by the imposing Man, who towered over them now that they were all standing on the ground.

“My mount is new to me and clearly quite flighty,” the Man explained with a sigh. “She was a riding animal, you see, and does not like the wagon overmuch.”

“I’m right sorry I fell in your wagon, sir,” Sam said bashfully. “I hope I didn’t break nothin’ important.”

“Don’t fret, my boy,” the Man said kindly. “I would see my belongings broken sooner than your neck!”

Frodo found himself staring at the Man with interest. Now that the calamity was over, his un-hobbitlike curiosity had returned in full force. The fellow appeared to be an elderly Man, as Frodo had first thought. He wore a tall, pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, a sliver scarf over which his long white beard hung down below his waist, and immense black boots. He carried a very long, peculiar-looking walking stick as well.

Frodo shook himself when he realized he and Sam had been staring. “I apologize, sir,” Frodo said quickly. “It’s just that we very rarely see Men near Hobbiton.”

“And never oliphaunts!” Sam put in loudly.

The old Man laughed. “Hwesta has been called many things, my dear little fellow, but never an oliphaunt!”

Sam glowered suspiciously at the Man. “Are you sure he’s not an oliphaunt?” the little hobbit asked sceptically.

“Quite certain,” the old Man replied. “He isn’t even a ‘he’!”

“A lady oliphaunt?” Sam inquired, not to be put off.

“Is she a... a horse?” Frodo asked curiously. He had never seen one, but he knew of such creatures, and he knew a horse strongly resembled a pony in everything but size.

“She is, at that,” the Man said, clearly amused. “Have you young fellows never happened to see one?”

“No, sir,” Sam said, his eyes wide as he stared up at the enormous creature. “What did ye say her name was, beggin’ your pardon?”

“She is called Hwesta,” came the reply.

“The breeze...” Frodo muttered to himself, and looked up at the old fellow.

The Man was staring at him, clearly shocked. “Why, I had no idea knowledge of Elvish had become so general among Halfling children!”

“That it ain’t,” Samwise said proudly. “Mr. Frodo here is the only one I know to’ve learnt it.”

“Indeed? A most unusual hobbit, then,” the Man looked consideringly at Frodo. “Could it be that you know a friend of mine? A fellow named Bilbo Baggins?”

Frodo and Sam both gave a start. “Why yes, we both know him, sir,” Frodo said politely. “He is my uncle. Er, my cousin, rather...”

The old Man raised an eyebrow, but let the question pass. “How extraordinary! Is he at home this day, do you know?”

“He is, sir,” Frodo replied, brimming with curiosity as to who this old Man could be who claimed to be a friend of Bilbo’s. “Shall I show you the way?”

The Man seemed about to decline, but looking into the two hopeful faces he relented at last. “It has been many a year since I’ve come this way,” he mused, eyes twinkling. “Perhaps I would benefit from a bit of direction. Come along, both of you! Up here on the seat!” He lifted first Samwise and then Frodo and set them beside him on the wagon bench.

“May I... may I ask your name, sir?” Frodo said once the Man had urged Hwesta into a steady walk. The tweenager knew he should wait for the stranger to introduce himself, but he couldn’t contain his curiosity.

“My dear boy, I do apologize!” the old Man exclaimed with a chuckle. “I am so accustomed to being recognized, I quite forgot you might not know me. I am called Gandalf the Grey.”

Frodo began his response automatically. “This is Samwise Gamgee, and I am—” The young hobbit never finished his sentence, for his jaw had dropped, and it was some seconds before he was able to close his mouth again. “You are Gandalf! The Gandalf who took my uncle on an adventure?”

Gandalf laughed merrily and gave Frodo a wink. Sam was staring now, and Frodo couldn’t take his eyes off their tall companion. The travel-stained cloak, the dusty boots, the wrinkled hat and the face creased with many years... he seemed far too ordinary to be the fabled Gandalf of Bilbo’s great adventure.

“Why, I thought you were a Man!” Frodo exclaimed in awe, too surprised to mind his manners, “but you’re one of the Istari! A real wizard...” He had never seen a wizard, of course, but he had expected such a person to look rather more frightening, or magical, or something.

“Quite so, quite so,” Gandalf rumbled.

“A—a wizard?” Samwise squeaked, far less sanguine about this development than Frodo was.

“I’ve heard the most remarkable tales about you, sir,” Frodo said earnestly, unable to help himself.

“Indeed?” the wizard said, his mouth twitching behind his long white beard. “Nothing unseemly, I trust?”

“Well—” Frodo did not know what to say. In Hobbiton, he had heard Gandalf called a bad influence, a disturber of the peace, a cheap conjuror, and worse. But naturally, Bilbo’s opinion was the only one Frodo put any stock in, and so Frodo knew that this wizard was undoubtedly an interesting fellow.

Gandalf appeared unfazed by Frodo’s lack of response, and calmly got out the longest pipe Frodo had ever seen. The wizard transferred Hwesta’s reigns to one hand, filled and lit the pipe in what seemed to be the space of an eye blink, and settled the stem comfortably between his teeth as he took up the reigns in both hands once more.

* The description of Gandalf is taken directly from The Hobbit.

31. A Happy Reunion

March 7, 1395

In just a few minutes, Gandalf and his two hobbitling companions were nearing the Hill and Bagshot Row. Sam had been chattering a mile a minute, for Gandalf had quickly put him at ease.

“So, May managed to clean up all that flour, did she?” Gandalf was saying with a twinkle in his eye. “The girl must have been quite a sight, to be sure!”

“Oh, aye, sir!” Sam replied with relish. “And when me mum came in an’ saw her, she said, ‘Why, May, you’re so awful messy, I thought you were Sam-lad for a minute there’!”

Gandalf laughed loudly along with Sam, and Frodo smiled. The older lad had been far quieter than his chatterbox friend for the duration of the wagon ride, and Sam worried suddenly that he had overstepped his bounds in addressing the wizard so familiarly. Had he offended Gandalf and upset Frodo?

In fact, such thoughts couldn’t have been further from Frodo’s mind, but he was in such a state of fascinated excitement that he hardly noticed when Sam fell suddenly silent. In truth, Frodo was wild with the slowly-growing hope that Gandalf had come to take Bilbo on another adventure, one that Frodo himself might take part in; this was the only thought behind the hopeful stare he fixed on the wizard.

Few things escaped Gandalf’s notice, and one would have to be obtuse indeed to overlook that blazing blue gaze. An interesting boy this Frodo would turn out to be, undoubtedly. Gandalf looked forward to finding out what fascinated the dark-haired hobbitling so. But missing his other companion’s cheerful chatter, Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow at Sam. “Come now, Samwise. You can’t leave an old man hanging like that!” the wizard said. “You’ve told me of Marigold and May, and now I wish to hear of your other sister and your brothers.”

Sam looked up and grinned, relieved that he hadn’t offended the wizard. “Well sir, next eldest is Daisy. But she’s a good deal sillier than the other two lasses, if ye follow me, Mr. Gandalf.”

“Indeed?” asked Gandalf.

“Most surely,” Sam replied. “Why, when poor Mr. Frodo here first came ta Hobbiton, Daisy was telling us every hour, seemingly, what a fine colour his eyes were, like the summer sky or somesuch.”

Frodo’s preoccupation seemed to resolve itself at this, for he grimaced at the mention of Daisy and went rather red.

“Hmm,” Gandalf said, and turned to look at Frodo. He put a finger under Frodo’s chin and tilted the boy’s face up to the fading afternoon light, peering interestedly at his eyes. “They are indeed a most striking colour,” the old wizard decided cheerfully.

Frodo, if it was possible, went even redder.

Sam laughed. “She doesn’t talk about poor Mr. Frodo no more, Mr. Gandalf, but I know she’s still just as silly as ever. I’d bet my Gaffer’s taters on it!”

Gandalf laughed uproariously, for Frodo’s face was still the colour of a pickled beet, although the lad was fighting not to smile now. “Indeed, Miss Daisy is quite decorous these days, and hates to be reminded of... any undignified behaviour,” Frodo put in finally. “As do I,” he added under his breath, with a pointed glare at Sam. The younger lad only grinned back at Frodo, for Sam was fifteen now and found the whole thing dreadfully amusing.

They neared the turnoff for Bagshot Row, and Frodo belatedly remembered he was supposed to be directing Gandalf how to get to Bag End and Bilbo. But Gandalf clearly didn’t need any assistance, for he made the turn without prompting, all the while questioning Sam about his next eldest sibling, Halfred.

“So Halfred is to be a farmer,” Gandalf mused, guiding Hwesta expertly up the Hill. “And what of the eldest?”

“Oh, Hamson is in Tighfield, sir,” Sam said. “Apprenticed to me Uncle Andwise the Roper, is Hamson.”

“Tighfield, you say?” Gandalf murmured. “A fair-sized journey that must have been. How long has the young fellow been apprenticed?”

“Over three years now, Mr. Gandalf,” Sam replied. “He’s only got two more years ta train before he’s a Roper himself, according to his last letter. He’ll be of age then, too.”

“Oh!” Frodo exclaimed. “I hadn’t heard the end of his apprenticeship was set, Sam. Did you get a letter recently?”

“Aye, just yesterday, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said apologetically. “I meant ta tell ye the news this mornin’, but I clean forgot.”

“And what will young Hamson do with himself after his apprenticeship, Samwise?” Gandalf asked.

“Why, settle somewhere and practice his trade, I reckon,” Sam replied. “Oh, and get married, I suppose. That was the other part I meant ta tell you about the letter, Mr. Frodo! Ham’s been courtin’ a lass, and they mean to marry as soon as he sets himself up!”

Frodo exclaimed in delight. “How marvellous!” he said, his earlier discomfiture forgotten. “I don’t know anyone more deserving of such happiness. What’s the name of the lass, Sam?”

“Twofoot, I think he said, sir. Miss Henna Twofoot. Her dad is the local innkeeper away over there.”

“How responded your parents, Sam?” Frodo asked curiously.

Sam paused. “I don’t rightly know, sir,” he said slowly. “They don’t think much of our neighbour, Daddy Twofoot. I expect they’re not too sure o’ these Tighfield Twofoots, if ye follow me.”

“Indeed?” Gandalf said, tugging at his beard thoughtfully. Frodo, looking at him, was struck by the incongruity of finally meeting one of the mighty Istari—a doer of magic, a teller of tales, a haver of adventures—only to find him seemingly more interested in hearing about the mundane details of Hobbit life than anything else.

The wagon pulled up at Bagshot Row just then, and Sam hopped out to go in for dinner.

“Thankee for the ride, Mr. Gandalf,” Sam said politely.

“You are most welcome, Samwise,” Gandalf rumbled, and urged Hwesta back into a walk.

Without Sam’s cheerful chatter to fill in the spaces, Frodo found himself suddenly shy again in Gandalf’s presence.

“Warg got your tongue, young fellow?” the wizard inquired at length, rolling a squinting grey eye in Frodo’s direction as they ascended the Hill to Bag End.

“No, sir,” Frodo replied, ashamed of his unpardonable rudeness. “It’s only... well, I wasn’t expecting to see you is all!”

Gandalf chortled at this, although Frodo failed to see the joke. “My dear boy,” he intoned sternly, “I am a wizard. You are not supposed to expect me.”

“Oh,” Frodo said weakly, feeling rather out of his element.

“Just wait until you see your uncle’s reaction—or did you say he was your cousin?” Gandalf said, chuckling again. “I daresay he is not expecting me, and I quite look forward to his response.”

“Indeed he is not expecting you, sir,” Frodo replied. “Although one never really knows with Bilbo...”

But Gandalf wasn’t listening anymore; he was chortling to himself again as they pulled up in front of Bag End’s front gate. “Oh yes,” the wizard murmured, with a manic twinkle in his eyes. “When a wizard comes calling, one must always expect... the unexpected.”

A smile slowly spread across Frodo’s face as he looked at Gandalf. Those peculiar words sent a thrill of excitement tingling down his spine, for they seemed to promise a definite break in the quiet life that Frodo had never considered at all dreary until today.

Gandalf winked at Frodo. He picked up a long staff that had been lying unnoticed at their feet and hopped down from the wagon, quite spry despite his advanced years. The wizard tied Hwesta’s reigns to the gate as Frodo clambered down after him.

“Come along, then!” Gandalf said briskly, leading the way up the path. He raised his staff as if to knock on the door.

“I live here with Bilbo, Mr. Gandalf; I can open the door,” Frodo said. “You needn’t knock.”

One corner of Gandalf’s mouth lifted as he looked down at the tweenager beside him. “I really think I’d rather knock, all the same,” he said. “And call me Gandalf, if you please.”

Frodo smiled shyly at this invitation to familiarity and stepped aside to allow the wizard access to the door, still puzzled as to why he wanted so badly to knock.

“Thank you, Frodo,” Gandalf said politely, and raised his staff once more.

Frodo nearly jumped out of his skin a moment later when Gandalf’s staff first made contact with the door. BANG! BANG! BANG! Three resounding knocks echoed through the front garden and, undoubtedly, through all of Bag End.

Frodo stared at that staff; if he had only been watching and not listening, he would have said Gandalf only tapped it against the door very lightly.

His amazement was cut short by quick footsteps padding into the foyer on the other side of the door. As the footsteps came closer, Frodo began to make out words.

“Now who could that be, banging down my door and rousing half the Shire, no doubt—” Bilbo was muttering crossly as he fumbled with the knob on the other side.

The door was flung open quite suddenly. “Now what in the name of Elbereth do you mean by trying to break down my door? Can’t a decent hobbit take a nap anymore, you—” Bilbo stopped in mid-tirade when he saw who was standing on his front step, and his scowling face transformed into an expression of joy. “Why, Gandalf! Gandalf, you’ve come back!” Bilbo exclaimed in delight.

“Hullo, old friend,” Gandalf said warmly, stooping to embrace the hobbit. Frodo was still standing beside the door, out of Bilbo’s line of sight, but he hated to interrupt the reunion and was content to remain unnoticed for now.

They broke apart laughing. “Well, I am happy to see you,” Bilbo said then, trying to sound stern and failing miserably. “But that was an unpardonably rude way of knocking, you old scoundrel!”

Gandalf chuckled. “I was offered a more appropriate way of gaining entrance, but I thought, living among such unadventurous folk as you have been doing all these years, you could do with a good shaking up.”

“Well, I shall never forgive you for it. Now come in and have a cup of tea!” Bilbo said. “Supper’s almost ready, so we’ve time to catch up. It has been too many years, and I have some surprising things to tell you!”

Gandalf’s eyes flickered briefly to Frodo, whom Bilbo had still not noticed standing beside the door and now smiling impishly. “Now really, Bilbo, do you imagine you could have anything to tell me that I would not already know?” Gandalf rumbled. “You forget, old friend, that I am a wizard and know everything!”

“Ha!” Bilbo exclaimed, grinning. “You may try and fool me, but you’ll never guess this, Gandalf, for I have gone and done something entirely unexpected.”

“Nay, I know it all nonetheless,” Gandalf said dismissively, “and I shall prove it.”

“Well then, let’s hear it, although I still say you’ll never guess,” Bilbo challenged, smiling indulgently.

“Very well,” Gandalf said, and proceeded to clear his throat. “You have adopted an heir, a young lad by the name of Frodo Baggins, a cousin orphaned in Buckland fifteen years ago and now aged about twenty-six summers, I should say. He is very learned for one so young, and reads and studies extensively on many topics, including Elvish. He likes to climb trees, and has often handled ponies in the past. He’s a quiet lad, but very kind to those in need, and he is far braver than he thinks he is. He has earned the loyalty and affection of one Samwise Gamgee, and others as well I should think. Oh, and he quite enjoys living here with you, Bilbo, but is secretly hoping you’ll take him on an adventure!”

Bilbo could only stare for a moment, in total shock. “Why, Gandalf! How in the name of Elbereth could you have found out I’d adopted an heir, and know so much about Frodo?”

Frodo’s jaw had dropped sometime during the recitation, and he closed it slowly. He supposed that an extremely perceptive person could have deduced all that information from things he or Sam had said today, although he was mystified as to where Gandalf had gotten some of the more embarrassing notions. In any case, hearing it all laid out like that was extremely unnerving.

Gandalf was clearly enjoying himself. “Have I not yet persuaded you of my omnipotence?” he said teasingly. “I do believe there are some points I forgot to bring up. Let me see, did I mention that his eyes are as blue as the summer sky?”

Frodo was unable to hold back a snort at this, and Bilbo turned quickly and spotted the boy.

“Aha! So you’re not omnipotent; you’ve already met!” Bilbo cried.

“Quite so, quite so,” Gandalf admitted sheepishly.

“Although I have difficulty believing Frodo would describe the colour of his own eyes in such a fashion,” Bilbo said sceptically.

“Er, yes. That came from another source entirely, as it happens,” Gandalf answered evasively. “Now then, I believe you said something about tea!”

“And supper!” Frodo put in, for he hadn’t eaten since Sam’s picnic lunch and he was famished.

Bilbo laughed. “Well, come in, the both of you, and we shall see what we can do. Mind your head, Gandalf.”

“He tells me that every time I come,” Gandalf muttered to Frodo.

“That is because you never listen, old friend!” Bilbo retorted over his shoulder as he led the way to the kitchen, just before Gandalf stepped inside and promptly collided with the chandelier.

Gandalf grumbled and rubbed his forehead, stooping even lower to pass through the doorway to the kitchen.

“Why, Frodo-lad, what happened to your poor knees?” Bilbo exclaimed, catching site of the tweenager’s skinned knees as Frodo walked past him.

“Well...”

Bilbo efficiently cleaned and bandaged Frodo’s knees, although the tween was somewhat reluctant to explain how he had sustained the injury. Tea was a merry affair, as was supper which followed about ten minutes after tea. At Bilbo’s insistence, Gandalf finally related the circumstances of his first meeting with Frodo, who was most embarrassed to have his quick thinking in stopping Hwesta praised so enthusiastically.

“I always thought this boy would be a good one to have around when there are rampaging beasts to be tamed,” Bilbo said when Gandalf had finished. He winked at his nephew, but no one could deny the proud smile that lit up his face.

After supper Gandalf went outside to feed and settle Hwesta in the grass over the Hill for the night, and then he joined his hosts in the sitting room. Gandalf and Bilbo got out their pipes, and for hours Gandalf regaled the two hobbits with tales both noble and outlandish.

It was nearly eleven o’clock when Gandalf noticed that Frodo, who had been sitting beside him on the couch, was leaning rather heavily on his arm. The fire in the hearth had died down to glowing embers, but there was enough light for the wizard to see that the boy’s eyes were closed, and his breathing deep and even. Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows at Bilbo. “Perhaps it is time to retire?” he whispered.

Bilbo nodded and put down his pipe before standing up from his armchair and carefully shifting Frodo off the wizard. “He likes to sit up late, but I suppose he’s had a long day,” the old hobbit replied with a fond smile for the sleeping Frodo, now slumped against the side of the couch. “I suppose you’d like to stay in the room you used last time?”

Gandalf nodded in assent. “I’m afraid it will be just the one night, though. I am on my way North in the morning.”

“Only one night?” was Bilbo’s dismayed reply. “I do hope you’ll stop here again soon, then. I see you all too rarely.”

“Why not come with me?” Gandalf suggested in a whisper. “The boy as well; I do get the impression he would like a little adventure. At least as far as Bindbole Wood, and then you can turn back.”

“Bindbole is not too far out of the way of Buckland,” Bilbo mused softly. “Frodo has never been on such a long journey, but I daresay he would welcome the excitement. After we part company, Frodo and I could stop in to see his cousins at Brandy Hall; he hasn’t been back there since he came to live with me.  If I send word by post first thing tomorrow, it should arrive in Buckland before we do.”

“A fine plan,” Gandalf whispered. “Can you be ready to leave in the morning?”

“I suppose I can; you’ve certainly given me practice at leaving in haste,” Bilbo replied with a wry smile. “But I don’t know how Frodo will feel about such an abrupt departure.”

“I can be ready, Uncle!” Frodo whispered. “And why are we whispering?”

Gandalf and Bilbo turned in surprise to see that Frodo had awoken and was watching them intently, his blue eyes shining with excitement in the firelight.

Bilbo laughed. “We were whispering because you were asleep, young hobbit!” he said in a normal tone.

“I wasn’t!” Frodo protested.

“You were, and no wonder. It is past eleven o’clock.”

“Excellent!” said Frodo, stifling a yawn. “Just the right time for second elevenses!”

Bilbo’s mouth twitched. “I don’t believe such a meal has ever existed, Frodo-lad,” he said with a straight face. “But if you wish to invent it, you may go into the pantry and find yourself something to eat. Gandalf and I are going to bed!”

Frodo got up and headed back to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to look back at Bilbo. “Are we really going with Gandalf, Uncle?” he said hopefully.

“We are indeed,” Bilbo replied, motioning Gandalf out the other door and toward the bedrooms. “That is, if you are able to get up in the morning! Don’t stay up too late, lad.”

“I won’t,” Frodo answered, and as soon as his back was turned, broke out into an enormous smile.

32. A Journey With Gandalf

Frodo was having a very pleasant dream. Just like any proper hobbit dream, this one was about food. He was sitting at the kitchen table in Bag End... although the kitchen itself seemed to be the one from Brandy Hall... In any case, Frodo was unconcerned with his surroundings, for there were several dozen warm, fragrant apple pies stacked in great piles all around him.

Frodo inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of spiced apples and sweet, flaky crust. Beginning to salivate, he pulled the first tart toward him and dug in with the large wooden spoon that was conveniently in his hand. The pie was perfect, neither too hot nor too cool. Frodo chewed slowly, thinking with satisfaction of the many delicious tarts still waiting to be eaten.

Quite suddenly there came a shaking at his elbow, and Frodo dropped his spoon.

“Time to get up, lad!” exclaimed a sickeningly cheerful voice.

“I wasn’t finished, Uncle,” Frodo protested, opening his eyes reluctantly as Bilbo lifted the pillow out of his hands.

“Good heavens!” Bilbo said in astonishment, noticing that one corner of the pillow was damp and crumpled. “Were you chewing on your pillow, Frodo-lad?”

Frodo yawned and sat up. “I was having the most marvellous dream, Uncle Bilbo,” he grumbled.

Bilbo laughed. “So it would seem! Well, I do apologize for interrupting, but we’re leaving in twenty minutes and I thought you might not wish to be left behind.”

“Leaving... oh!” Frodo sat up suddenly. “Gandalf!”

“Yes, indeed; our little adventure is about to begin,” Bilbo said. “I’ve already packed for both of us and informed Hamfast, so you need only get yourself dressed and fed.”

Frodo nodded and swung his furry feet to the floor as Bilbo hurried out of the bedroom.

Twenty minutes later, a very groggy Frodo emerged from Bag End into the early dawn light. The dark-haired tweenager stumbled a few steps into the garden before he tripped over something and nearly went sprawling.

“Ouch! Mind where you’re steppin’, sir!” Samwise got up from where he had been tending the begonias and rubbed the arm that Frodo had trod on.

“Oh, I am sorry, Sam!” Frodo exclaimed when he realized what had happened. “Did I hurt you?”

“No harm done,” Sam replied cheerfully.

Frodo yawned and stared. “Sam, what time is it? Why are you up so early today?”

Sam looked up in surprise. “Why, it’s just past six, Mr. Frodo,” the younger lad said. “And my Gaffer starts work about dawn every day. ‘A gardener gets up with the sun,’ he always says.”

Frodo groaned. “I’m glad someone is enjoying this.”

“Oh, but Master Bilbo says you’re goin’ on an adventure with Mr. Gandalf, sir!” Sam exclaimed. “Surely you expect ta enjoy that!”

“No doubt I shall, if I ever wake up enough to see what’s happening.”

“Frodo-lad! Time we were away!” Bilbo called then.

Frodo glanced up to see Gandalf had finished hitching Hwesta to the wagon. Bilbo was already on the seat beside Gandalf, and Gaffer Gamgee was handing up the last of their provisions.

Frodo looked back at Sam, suddenly regretting that he had to leave his little friend for so long. If only Sam were older, his father might have allowed him to come. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, Sam,” Frodo said softly.

“I’ll keep the place in good order for when ye come home, sir,” Sam replied, getting to his feet. The sandy-haired child smiled at Frodo, but there was a certain strain in that round face.

Frodo forced himself to smile back; he was rather stunned to realize that Sam would miss him as much as he would miss Sam.

Sam returned to his work and Frodo went to the front gate where the others were waiting. The sky was lightening rapidly, but Frodo closed his eyes and yawned again. Why did adventures always have to begin at dawn? He didn’t care what the Gamgees thought; it was much too early for any sensible hobbit to be about.

“Mind yourself, young master!” came a startled exclamation.

Frodo opened his eyes quickly; he had nearly walked straight into Hamfast. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Gamgee,” Frodo said, turning red to the tips of his pointed ears.

Bilbo and Gandalf both laughed. Hamfast remained respectfully silent, although his lips twitched suspiciously. Frodo grimaced and clambered into Gandalf’s wagon. Gandalf reached out to grab the back of Frodo’s waistcoat when it looked as if the half-asleep tween might slide back to the ground.

“Most hobbitfolk like to sleep a bit late, but I’m afraid Frodo considers dawn to be the middle of the night,” the old hobbit commented with a wry smile as Frodo settled himself on the rear seat.

“Fear not, Master,” said Hamfast as he untied Hwesta from the rail. “’Tis a tweenaged habit that he’ll soon overcome. Why, my Ham and my Hal were the same way, sir.”

“I pray you’re right, Gaffer.” Bilbo glanced fondly over his shoulder at Frodo, who was now stretching himself out on the rear bench as though ready for a nap.

Then Hamfast handed the reigns to Gandalf. The wizard spoke a few words to his steed and they were off, trotting briskly down the lane.

When Frodo awoke, the sun was high in the sky and shining brightly.  He did not recognize the stretch of land in front of him. The last sight he could recall was of the farms on the outskirts of Hobbiton; now he could see a few farms scattered about on the softly rolling hills, but they were unfamiliar.

Bilbo and Gandalf on the bench in front of him were speaking in quiet, serious tones.

“And you were there how long ago?” Bilbo was asking.

“In Erebor? Why, just last winter that was,” Gandalf said. “Dwalin asked to be remembered to you. His brother would have as well, I am certain, except he was rather busy making elaborate plans. He intends to found a new colony for the Dwarves, you see. Can’t get the poor fellow to talk of anything else.”

“Would you be speaking of Balin, son of Fundin?” Frodo piped up, unable to stay quiet any longer.

Bilbo and Gandalf both turned their heads briefly to look at the blue-eyed lad behind them.

“He’s awake,” Gandalf commented to Bilbo.

“So it would seem, although one cannot always tell,” Bilbo replied, ignoring the indignant huff behind him. “Quite an unforeseen development, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed,” Gandalf murmured. “Why, I had quite forgotten we had another passenger! Pity we’ve already eaten second breakfast. Or at least, pity you’ve already eaten it. I do hate to see such an endearing little creature go hungry.”

“Yes, quite a shame, really,” Bilbo added. “Those sausages and apple tarts I made were exceptionally tasty, though I say it myself.”

“Apple tarts?” Frodo’s eyes lit up at this bit of information, and he immediately began rummaging in the back of the wagon.

“Yes, dreadful pity, there not being a single bite left,” Bilbo continued as though Frodo hadn’t spoken.

“Found one!” Frodo exclaimed happily. “No—found three!”

“Hm. Must have miscounted,” Bilbo said, arching an eyebrow at Gandalf.

“And a fine thing you did, my friend,” Gandalf said. “I didn’t much relish the thought of being mauled to death by a hungry Halfling, especially one made cranky by an interruption to his sleep.”

Frodo didn’t say anything; he had learned by this point that Gandalf was a dreadful tease, and Bilbo certainly enjoyed his bit of fun.

Besides, the tween’s mouth was occupied with the aforementioned apple tarts. The jostling of the cart made matters difficult, but Frodo thought he managed not to make too much of a mess.

“Here now, Frodo-lad, you’ve got crumbs everywhere,” Bilbo said then, having decidedly non-tweenaged notions about what constituted a mess. “Let me find you my kerchief...”

The old hobbit began rummaging through his pockets while Frodo sighed. Bilbo tended to be somewhat lax in his standards of housekeeping, but he was downright fastidious when it came to personal grooming. Frodo didn’t see any need to look like a gentlehobbit out here on the road where there was no one to see them, but he waited patiently for his uncle to finish searching.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Bilbo muttered. “We left in such a hurry, I forgot to pack my handkerchief!”

“What, again?” Gandalf said, raising one bushy eyebrow. “I should’ve thought you’d have learnt your lesson the last time...”

Bilbo merely glared at Gandalf.

“Oh, Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo finally exclaimed in exasperation. “How can you think of such things at a time like this? We’re having an adventure!” It was nearing midmorning, and Frodo was clearly beginning to perk up.

“Yes, ‘Uncle Bilbo’!” Gandalf added, smirking. “We’re having an adventure! Now cease your worrying and try to enjoy yourself.”

Bilbo grumbled good-naturedly but settled back on the wagon seat, apparently resigned to Frodo making a mess of his clothes.

The day passed enjoyably for the three companions. Gandalf set an unhurried pace, stopping for a leisurely picnic at elevenses, luncheon, and afternoon tea, and Bilbo kept things lively by telling stories and making up new songs. They reached Overhill in the late afternoon and stopped for an early supper at the local inn.

Frodo had been to a number of the villages near Hobbiton, on short trips with Bilbo, but he had never been to Overhill. He looked about with great interest as they passed through the bustling market. The town was smaller than Hobbiton, but it was a favourite stopping place for hobbits travelling to and from the North Farthing.

Gandalf elicited a fair number of stares and excited whispers at the Inn; Big Folk were a rare sight so deep within the Shire. A party of Overhill Boffins at the next table recognized Bilbo, and so it wasn’t long after the three departed that Gandalf was identified by one grumpy old gaffer as ‘that barmy conjuror who dragged Mad Baggins off to parts unknown, a good many years back.’

They crossed into the North Farthing a few hours after leaving Overhill, and Frodo was delighted to see the terrain grow wilder and less populated; now it was easy to imagine he was off in the far reaches of Middle Earth, having an adventure with Bilbo and Gandalf.

They made camp a short distance off the road, which was now little more than a dirt track. Frodo decided that nothing could be more blissful than sleeping out of doors on a cool spring evening, between his uncle and a cheerfully crackling fire, with the stars overhead twinkling brightly on a field of deep blue, and Gandalf looking up at them, peacefully smoking his pipe on the other side of the camp-fire.

On the second day, they passed a few scattered, out-of-the-way farms that looked scarcely large enough to support one family. A small number of hobbits chose to live in near-isolation in this part of the Shire; most of the North Farthing towns were to the northeast, although there were several small villages in the Bindbole Wood and beyond.

Mostly Frodo saw tall wild grasses moving softly in the breeze, and the occasional goat or sheep, but these soon gave way to larger shrubs and trees. By nightfall, the three companions had reached the fringes of Bindbole Wood itself. They made camp in a clearing, but it was too dark for Frodo to get a good look until morning.

The third day was spent travelling through the forest. It was rather like the small wooded areas that Frodo played in near Bag End, only much more extensive. The tallest trees arched high overhead, their leaves allowing the sunlight to filter through. There was plenty of space between trees for Hwesta to find her path, but the underbrush was thick, and it crunched underneath the horse’s hooves with every step.

This was to have been the day that Bilbo and Frodo parted company with Gandalf and turned east to Buckland, but the two hobbits were enjoying themselves so much that Bilbo decided to accompany Gandalf another two days.

They would not leave Gandalf until they encountered the Oatbarton road, which would take them southeast, to the East Farthing and Buckland. The Oatbarton road, of course, was on the very fringes of the Shire, past Bindbole, and Frodo was beside himself with delight at the prospect of travelling to the northern edge of the Shire.

By the fourth afternoon they were well past Bindbole wood, but the terrain was still forested and becoming more hilly. Frodo was sitting up front with Gandalf while Bilbo dozed on the rear bench of the wagon.

Frodo had gleaned a wealth of new stories from Gandalf over the course of the last several days, and he looked forward to telling them all to Sam as soon as he got home. At the moment, however, Gandalf was humming softly around the stem of his pipe, and Frodo was watching the scenery. The sun was shining unusually hot for early spring, but the thick canopy of trees overhead made hobbits, wizard, and horse quite comfortable.

“Gandalf, what are those mountains straight ahead?” the tweenager asked suddenly, noticing the hulking shapes for the first time past the tops of the trees. He knew many of Bilbo’s maps by heart, but it had been years since he’d studied what lay north of the Shire.

“The Hills of Evendium,” Gandalf replied promptly, taking his pipe out of his mouth.

“Is that where you’re going?” Frodo asked curiously. “What is up there? Are there any hobbits?”

Gandalf laughed. “Give an old man the chance to answer, Frodo,” the wizard replied. “I am indeed bound for the Hills. I have an... engagement to keep, in a small village of Men up there.”

Frodo fixed wide blue eyes on his companion, clearly hoping for more information.

“It is the village of Annuminas, on the shores of Nenuial. Lake Evendium, if you like,” Gandalf added.

“Truly?” Frodo exclaimed. “That’s the source of the Brandywine river, is it not?”

“Indeed it is.”

Frodo continued to regard Gandalf with interest. “And you have friends up there, in—Annuminas?” Frodo stumbled a little over the pronunciation.

“I have friends everywhere, my dear hobbit,” Gandalf said, eyes twinkling. “And these particular friends were kind enough to give me the loan of this wagon, in fact. I promised to return it next time I was in the area.”

“But that is not the engagement you spoke of, is it, Gandalf?” Frodo asked shrewdly.

Gandalf chuckled. “No, my boy, in fact it is not.”

Frodo waited for Gandalf to elaborate, but the wizard merely smiled enigmatically and offered no further information. Frodo suppressed his curiosity with an effort; it would be rude to ask when Gandalf was clearly determined not to tell him anything about his business in Annuminas, but it all sounded so terribly interesting...

“Is my rascal of a nephew questioning you to death, Gandalf?” Bilbo spoke up suddenly from behind them, having woken from his nap.

“He is a very inquisitive young fellow,” Gandalf rumbled. “Most unnatural for a hobbit. Most unnatural indeed. You must be a dreadful influence on him, old friend.”

“And I learned from the most dreadful influence of them all,” Bilbo said dryly. “Frodo-lad, would you like to get out and walk for a bit?”

Frodo nodded eagerly, and Gandalf obligingly brought Hwesta to a halt. Bilbo had decided it wasn’t good for an active tweenager to sit in a wagon for hours on end, and so Frodo spent part of each day on foot. He could go where he pleased as long as he kept pace with the wagon and could find his way back when he got tired.

“Don’t stray too far today, lad,” Bilbo said as Frodo climbed down from the wagon. “There isn’t much of a path here, and you may have trouble finding us again.”

“I’ll be careful, Uncle,” Frodo assured the old hobbit. He turned and walked in among the trees until he could just see the wagon every so often, through gaps between branches.

Frodo enjoyed these solitary walks; he sometimes made up adventures for himself, or pretended he was a wild and mysterious Ranger of the North, as he had done with Samwise on many occasions over the years. But mostly the tweenager let his mind wander, thinking of nothing in particular and enjoying the peace of a forest in early spring.

He supposed that relative to the size of all of Middle Earth, he wasn’t really that far from home, but it certainly felt as if he was a great distance away. Certainly he knew of no other hobbits who had been so far north, to the very borders of the Shire.

The thought made Frodo smile, and he began to hum one of Bilbo’s walking songs. He was off on an adventure, with his uncle and a wizard! He supposed something dangerous or exciting had to happen before it could properly be called an adventure, but Frodo didn’t let that bother him. He had seen new and uninhabited parts of the Shire, and that was more than most hobbits aspired to.

Frodo stopped humming and looked around. Had he strayed further from the wagon? He could no longer hear the noise of the wheels and clopping hooves. How long ago had he last heard them? Frodo reproached himself for his inattention. He turned slowly around, trying to catch a glimpse of the wagon through the trees, but saw nothing but forest: trunks, branches, shrubs, and undergrowth as far as the eye could see.

“Unlce Bilbo?” he called. “Gandalf?”

There was no reply. Frodo shrugged and walked back to where he thought Hwesta’s path had been, but he saw no wagon either ahead or behind. The tweenager looked around uncertainly. He knew Bilbo would expect him to meet up with the wagon fairly soon; Frodo had already been walking about twenty minutes, and he never stayed out of sight longer than half an hour. Frodo decided to keep walking in the same direction for another few minutes, hoping that the wagon had simply turned aside to avoid some obstacle and would appear again soon. He was not particularly alarmed; he knew Bilbo and Gandalf were close by and would find him eventually, but he hated to worry them.

After walking for awhile longer, Frodo stopped again. He thought he heard voices, but they were coming from the direction opposite to where he expected the wagon to be. Frodo frowned, wondering how Bilbo and Gandalf could have gotten on his other side without his seeing them.

The tweenager hurried toward the voices. He was rather shocked that his normally reliable sense of direction appeared to have deserted him.

As he grew closer, however, Frodo was able to make out the words and tones of the speakers; he thought uneasily that the rough, coarse voices did not sound at all like Bilbo or Gandalf.

Frodo stopped his careless approach just in time; another few steps and he would have been visible to the strangers. He had paused behind a large flowering shrub, and could see that the two speakers were tall, rather rough looking Men. The sight made his heart race. Young hobbits were taught to be wary of outsiders, and Frodo wondered apprehensively what business these Men could have at the very edges of the Shire.

Frodo had once been lost in the woods when he lived at Brandy Hall, and he’d encountered a Man who had been very kind and brought him home. But these did not seem at all the same sort of Men, and so Frodo’s hobbit sense won over his natural curiosity. With his best hobbit stealth, Frodo began to creep silently back the way he had come.

But the tweenager halted in his tracks when he caught a snippet of what the strangers were discussing:

“Jus’ shut yer mouth an’ listen, Strasser!” growled one of the Men. “I’m tellin’ ya, the Shire’s the place, unless yer wantin’ to go back to Bree.”

Fear rose in Frodo when he heard this. Were these two planning some mischief against the Shire? Curiosity surged within him again, and he positioned himself determinedly behind the bush. If these Men intended harm to his kind, he wanted to know about it. He would listen to what they were planning, and then he would tell Bilbo and Gandalf; they would surely know what to do.

Frodo crouched down silently until he was completely hidden. He could see between the broad leaves, and the late afternoon sun illuminated the Men well enough that he could observe them easily. They both had long, scraggly brown or grey hair growing all over their heads and chins; their hair and skin were smudged with the dirt of long travel, and their clothes were in tatters. Frodo noted with a jolt of alarm that each one carried a short but wicked-looking sword, but what frightened him most was the cruel expression on each rough-looking face.

“I told ya a hundred times, Chattin,” the second Man, whom the other had called Strasser, snapped angrily. “No one’s ever found the Shire; such a place don’t even exist, maybe! An’ Bree’s gotten too hot fer the likes of us. There ain’t no prospect for thievin’ round there no more. ‘Sides, we was run outta town, in case ya forgot! The rope’s ready to be swung, if we ever show our faces there again. We hafta think o’ someplace else!”

“An’ where’d that be, eh? We’re too wanted down south to go back there,” Chattin answered darkly. “I’m tellin’ ya, we shud go an’ find the Shire! Didn’t you see ‘em in Bree? The Halflings? Small, rodent-like things they were. They kept talkin’ about goin’ back to their land, west o’ there. Why, I’ll bet we’d find plenty o’ livestock an’ riches, from the way them little rats were talkin’!”

“We don’t bloody well know where it is,” growled the other, grinding his teeth together.

“We ain’t gonna have food for more’n two days anyhow,” said Chattin. “What’ve we to lose, huh? Let’s jus’ start walkin’!”

They continued in this vein for a little while longer, but Frodo had stopped listening, so alarmed and frightened had he become. These Men were clearly ruffians of the sort he had been warned of all his life, who on rare occasions over the years had strayed into the Shire, stealing crops and doing harm to hobbits that interfered with their nefarious deeds.

He had to slip away and tell Gandalf, before these two left this uninhabited area and discovered they were in the Shire already! Undoubtedly there was nothing Bilbo could do against such foes, but surely Gandalf would wield his powerful magic against them and keep the Shire safe.

Frodo rose to his feet as silently as he could, trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding. Turning away from the scene, he began to creep back the way he had come. The arguing voices had quieted, and there was no telling how long he would have before the unsavoury pair finally decided to leave the area.

As he was edging away, a large, cold hand, too big to be a hobbits’, gripped his shoulder, stilling him in place. Frodo’s heart froze in his chest.

“Well, what’ve we got ‘ere?”

Strasser and Chattin are the creations of the awesome BellaMonte; she very kindly gave me permission to use them here, and even wrote much of the outline and dialogue for the ruffian scene. These characters originally appeared in her story, "Treasures," which can be found at fanfiction.net.  Please note, “Anchored” is most definitely not in the same canon as “Treasures,” i.e. in my universe, the events of “Treasures” have not and never will happen.

33. Ruffians

Frodo couldn’t hold back a yelp of surprise as he was yanked roughly into the clearing by a very strong, very angry ruffian. As Frodo dared glance up for a second, he saw it was the one with the long, shaggy gray hair: Strasser.

“Lookit what I found wanderin’ about, Chattin!” Strasser exclaimed angrily. “This little sneak was hidin’ in the bushes, spyin’ on us it looks like!”

“I-I didn’t mean to, I was only walking past!” Frodo stammered, squirming helplessly in the man’s iron grip. “I wasn’t doing anything. Please, let me go!”

The other ruffian’s brows lifted in surprise as he observed Frodo, his reaction less angry and more intrigued than his companion’s. “Never mind the spyin’, Rob. You’ve caught yerself a Halfling!”

Strasser gasped, and peered down to get a closer look at the small creature in his grasp. “A Halfling.” He laughed roughly. “Well, what d’ya know? A Halfling!”

Frodo uttered another soft plea for them to let him go, but neither man paid any heed to his protests.

“What’s one o’ the little folk doin’ out here in the middle o’ nowhere?” Chattin muttered. By now he had crossed the clearing and was considering the Halfling before him.

“’E’s so tiny!” Strasser remarked in amusement, still gripping Frodo’s arms tightly. “Lookit the size o’ these arms, and them little pointed ears! How old d’you figger he is?”

“If he were the size o’ our kind, I’d think he were twelve or thereabouts, but there ain’t no tellin’ with the little folk,” Chattin replied, tugging at his filthy hair in thought. “’E might be fifty, fer all I know.”

“I’m twenty-six!” Frodo said indignantly, wondering why they kept talking about him so rudely and yet insisted on ignoring him.

Both Men looked down at him darkly, and Frodo suddenly wished he hadn’t spoken.

“’E knows what we’re sayin’!” Strasser said in surprise.

“Of course he does,” Chattin snapped. “Didn’t ya hear ‘im before?”

“Aw, shut it, Chattin,” Strasser growled in warning. “Put yer ugly, know-it-all head ta work figurin’ out what we kin do with him. Tie him up so’s he can’t tell anyone where we’ve gone?”

The other Man stared down at Frodo in a cold, calculating way that made the tweenager shiver. The Man smiled slowly, and Frodo liked the smile even less. “No, we’ll take ‘im with us. Don’t ya see, Strasser? He’s just a little ‘un, only a child in their years. He didn’t come all the way from Bree, that’s fer sure.”

“Then you must be right, Tony!” Strasser exclaimed, realization finally dawning, along with dark amusement. “This ‘ere must be one o’ them Shire Halflings, to be wanderin’ so nearby. The Shire must be round here somewhere real close!”

“For once in yer life, ya got somethin’ spot on, Rob,” Chattin replied. He bent down to ruffle Frodo’s dark curls, much to the tweenager’s disgust. “Where didja come from, boy?” the Man asked, yellow and rotted teeth displayed in a nauseating grin. “How far away d’you live, an’ in what direction? If ya just lead us the right way fer a bit, we’ll let ya go nice and safe. And if you don’t... well, can’t say we could let you off so easy.”

The little hobbit said nothing, but stared back at Chattin defiantly. He may have been a child still, but he understood quite well what they were asking. Frodo knew he could do little against two Men, but he felt he would rather die than betray the Shire.

Strasser’s temper rose when the Halfling didn’t respond right away, and he tightened his vise-like grip on Frodo’s arms, giving the boy a rough shake. “Answer him, ya little rat, or ye’ll regret it!”

Anger began to bubble up along with Frodo’s fear. “I will not lead you to the Shire,” he said hotly. “Let me go at once!”

Chattin snarled furiously and seized Frodo by the collar. “I’ll teach ya some manners, Halfling!” His big, meaty hand lifted, ready to strike the small hobbit.

Not stopping to ponder the irony of that proposal, Frodo lifted his hairy foot and kicked backwards as hard as he could. His heel connected solidly with Strasser’s knee, and the Man released him with a howl of pain.

Dodging the second pair of arms that tried to grab him, Frodo slipped away from the two rogues and scrambled away, sure that if he could just dart into the brush he could easily hide himself. He ran as fast as he could, not wishing to ponder the fate that would befall him if he didn’t escape.

But he wasn’t quite quick enough. Chattin, swearing volubly, overtook the boy within a few strides and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

Strasser limped over to where the other Man now held Frodo in a firm grip. “Yer goin’ to regret that, little rat,” he growled, glaring at the tweenager murderously.

Frodo shuddered involuntarily, hoping they couldn’t see how frightened he was.

“That can wait,” Chattin growled. “We need ‘im to lead us to the Shire first, remember?”

Strasser snarled and slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand. The sound made Frodo jump nervously.

Chattin drew a breath as if to continue, then paused. “I think I heard somethin’, Rob,” he said suddenly, looking away from the hobbit in his grasp to stare into the forest.

In the brief silence that followed, Frodo’s sensitive hobbit ears detected the sounds of something—or someone—shuffling softly through the underbrush.

Hope surged in Frodo’s heart. If these ruffians weren’t expecting anyone, and it didn’t seem as though they were, then it must be Gandalf or Bilbo. Gandalf was a powerful wizard, whether he acted like it or not, and he could surely rescue him. Frodo prayed it wasn’t Bilbo. He couldn’t bear the thought of his dear uncle being put in danger because of such an incautious nephew.

Chattin hesitated. “Halflings never travel alone, ya know,” he continued uneasily. “They go round in packs, like deer—there might be more around, many more.”

Frodo looked at the Man hopefully. Perhaps if they thought he had wandered away from a large group, they would be afraid and let him go.

“Don’t go losin’ yer head, Chattin,” Strasser said contemptuously. “What’ve we got to fear from a bunch o’ little folk, eh?”

“They might be armed, Rob,” Chattin growled, lowering his voice. “Halflings are known fer bein’ wicked good shots with a bow an’ arrow.”

Frodo held his breath. He certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell them that hobbits hadn’t used such weapons in centuries.

Strasser hesitated, looking in the direction where the sounds of someone’s approach had grown louder. He put his face right down in front of Frodo’s, and suddenly Frodo became aware that there was a knife in the ruffian’s hand, being held against the tender skin of his throat.

“We’re gonna leave here without no interference from the rest o’ yer little rat folk,” he snarled. “Make one false move before we’re gone an’ I’ll slit yer throat before you can take two steps, understand?”

Frodo stared at the Man with frightened blue eyes and nodded carefully, very aware of the cold steel biting into his flesh.

“Put that away, ya fool,” Chattin hissed, releasing his tight grip on Frodo’s arms and placing a warning hand on his shoulder instead. Strasser whisked away his knife just as Gandalf the Grey himself emerged from the trees.

“Gandalf!” Frodo exclaimed, unable to disguise the relief in his voice. Surely the wizard would perform some magic to defeat the ruffians, and all would be well.

There was a moment of silence as Gandalf paused, leaning upon his staff a bit as an old Man would, and took in the scene before him: two tall, scruffy Men with a small hobbit in front of them.

“Frodo, my boy, you shouldn’t have wandered so far away,” Gandalf reproached him gently, betraying no alarm at the sight before him.

“I... I’m sorry, Gandalf,” Frodo replied, puzzled. Couldn’t Gandalf see the threat these rogues posed?

Strasser and Chattin, for their part, stared silently at the newcomer, and Frodo thought he could almost hear them thinking quickly, re-evaluating the situation.

“What a relief you found him, gentlemen,” Gandalf said, now addressing the ruffians. “However can I thank you?”

Frodo stared at Gandalf in shock, while Chattin and Strasser grinned in delight, hardly believing their good fortune. It finally dawned on Frodo that the two ruffians saw nothing more than a doddering old man leaning on a walking stick, and Gandalf was doing nothing to suggest otherwise.

“Oh, it was our pleasure, good sir,” Chattin said in a vague, mocking tone. “Would you be so good as to direct us to the Shire?”

“The Shire, hmm?” Gandalf said mildly. “Why do you wish to go there?”

Strasser started to snarl something, but Chattin cut him off with an elbow to the gut.

“We’re merchants,” Chattin said quickly. “We have... business there. Now will ya help us or won’t ya?”

“Certainly,” the old wizard said pleasantly.

Frodo opened his mouth to protest, but he had scarcely taken a breath when Chattin squeezed his shoulder in warning, hard enough to leave bruises.

“Now then,” Gandalf began, ignoring Frodo’s attempts to gain his attention. “You have a good distance to go yet, but you will want to head northeast from here. Once you come to a mountain range, travel due north for two or three days, and there you are!”

Frodo’s jaw dropped. As far as he knew, those directions led into the middle of nowhere, for the Shire was to the south. Indeed, they were standing at the northern edge of the Shire at this very moment.

“Thank you, good sir,” Chattin sneered, with a mocking little bow. Strasser grinned and wisely said nothing.

“You are most welcome,” Gandalf replied. “Now then, I’ll take the boy and be on my way. The rest of our party is most concerned.” The old wizard shook his head in disapproval. “Wandering off the way he did, not telling anyone where he was going...”

Frodo glanced quickly at Gandalf. ‘The rest of our party’ consisted only of Bilbo, but the wizard had cleverly made it sound like there were many more.

Strasser and Chattin exchanged looks briefly, but then Chattin released his bruising grip on Frodo’s shoulder and gave him a shove toward Gandalf.

Frodo didn’t need any further invitation, and walked swiftly across the clearing to Gandalf’s side. By the time he reached the wizard, Chattin and Strasser were nearly out of sight, having set off at a rapid pace. Frodo noticed with satisfaction that Strasser’s knee, the one Frodo had kicked, seemed to be paining him, for he was limping.

Despite his relief at seeing the ruffians heading away from his beloved Shire, Frodo found himself hopelessly confused. He looked up at Gandalf and noticed for the first time that the wizard’s eyes were flashing angrily as he watched Strasser and Chattin disappear into the forest. Frodo hoped never to see such an expression directed at himself.

Once the filthy Men were out of sight, Gandalf looked down at the young hobbit, and his eyes softened. Putting a hand on Frodo’s shoulder, he steered him gently away from the clearing. “Are you all right, Frodo?” he asked finally, scrutinizing the tweenager carefully as they walked.

“Yes,” Frodo replied, hoping Gandalf wouldn’t notice the lingering reaction that made his heart continue to pound and his hands tremble.

Gandalf paused and grasped Frodo’s collar, carefully pulling it aside enough to reveal finger-shaped bruises on the smooth skin of Frodo’s shoulder. The wizard frowned, then sighed heavily. “I am sorry you had to meet such people, Frodo,” he said. “I can only assure you that not all Men would behave so.”

“But Gandalf, why didn’t you stop them? They were no merchants, they wanted to rob the Shire!”

“Well, I did prevent them from achieving that aim, did I not?”

“But... all you did was send them in the wrong direction!” Frodo exclaimed.

Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow. “And what should I have done instead, young hobbit?”

“I don’t know,” Frodo admitted. “Something more—wizardlike, I suppose.”

Gandalf chuckled and then grew serious. “Frodo, you and even Bilbo know little of my true abilities, but a wizard’s powers are rather memorable to those unfortunate enough to have witnessed them,” Gandalf said gravely. “You may trust that I had only the best interests of the Shire in mind when I sought another tactic. Make no mistake; those ruffians will be stopped, but quietly, and not by me. It would not be advisable to... draw attention to this area.”

“What do you mean, Gandalf?” Frodo asked, puzzled.

Gandalf was silent for a moment. “There are some who take it upon themselves to protect the Shire’s borders, and they rely to a great extent on secrecy,” the wizard said finally. “As it is, the Shire enjoys a somewhat mythical status in the wider world, and it would be best to keep it so. If the rogues that wish to plunder your home were to hear of wizards defending the area, the rumours would only grow stronger, and more of them would come seeking the Shire.”

Frodo frowned. That sounded even more peculiar than what Gandalf had first said. The tweenager knew that a handful of hobbits, the Shirriffs, protected the borders of the Shire, but Gandalf seemed to be referring to someone else.

“You needn’t be large or powerful to accomplish your goals, Frodo, and many times it is best if you’re not,” Gandalf added, seeing Frodo’s confusion.

“Do you always speak so mysteriously, Gandalf?” Frodo asked somewhat peevishly.

“Oh, as often as I can manage it,” Gandalf replied with a smile.

At long last they came round the side of a clump of trees, and Frodo could clearly see the wagon up ahead, his uncle standing beside it.

“Bilbo!” the boy cried, relief washing over him as he ran forward to embrace his surprised uncle.

“Frodo-lad!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Did Gandalf find you? We had to take a small detour, and we were afraid you might have lost us.”

“I did,” Frodo admitted.

“Why, Frodo, you’re trembling!” Bilbo said, frowning slightly as Frodo pulled away from the embrace.

“I’m afraid he had a rather nasty encounter,” Gandalf said, all trace of humour gone now. He explained quickly what had happened to Frodo, and Bilbo went pale as he heard of his young ward coming into contact with two such brutish people.

“Here?” the old hobbit whispered. “So close to our borders? Oh, dear...” Bilbo peered at Frodo in concern. “Are you all right, my boy?”

The tweenager nodded quickly, hating the thought of making Bilbo worry. “I was frightened, is all. They wanted me to lead them to the Shire,” Frodo said quietly. “They wanted to hurt me when I refused, but Gandalf came along just then.”

Gandalf and Bilbo both stared at him in the sudden silence that followed.

“When you refused... Oh, Frodo,” Bilbo murmured, pulling his nephew into another hug. “My brave lad!”

Gandalf smiled, peering at Frodo as though he could see into his very soul. “You are a credit to your kind, Frodo Baggins,” he said quietly.

Frodo looked down, suddenly uncomfortable. He had been frightened out of his wits; he hardly thought that counted as bravery. “I didn’t think having an adventure would be quite like this,” the tweenager confessed.

Bilbo sighed. “No real adventure is all fun and games, dear boy, although I certainly didn’t expect anything like this!”

“I think you’d best stick close from here onwards, Frodo,” Gandalf said gently.

“Yes, sir,” Frodo replied, not really surprised.

“I thought you were safe enough within the Shire, but we shan’t take any chances now that we’re nearly past the border,” the wizard continued.

Bilbo and Gandalf exchanged significant looks, but before Frodo had a chance to wonder what they were thinking, Gandalf had gathered Hwesta’s reigns and they were on their way again.

34. A Wizard’s Reassurance

The small party travelled only another two hours before halting again, for it was nearly suppertime. Gandalf knew better than to delay a meal when he had two hobbits in his wagon, and one of them a growing tweenager.

The old wizard glanced at Frodo from beneath shaggy eyebrows. Gandalf felt sure Frodo was still upset over the disastrous encounter with the ruffians; the child had been unusually quiet since returning to Bilbo.

Gandalf went forward to tend to Hwesta and smiled as he saw Frodo climb down from the wagon to assist his uncle with dinner preparations. The wizard knew that the best way to soothe frayed hobbit nerves was with an early supper.

Soon the fragrant aroma of cabbage stew wafted through the deepening dusk, and Gandalf settled himself on a log beside Frodo.  Bilbo soon became absorbed in cooking; he was bustling between the cooking fire and their supplies in the wagon, adding this or that to the stew and muttering to himself.

Gandalf looked down at the dark haired lad beside him and sighed. Frodo was chewing his lip and gazing uneasily into the dark forest all around them.

“You are quite safe, you know,” the wizard murmured.

Frodo turned to face him, startled, and coloured slightly when he realized he’d attracted Gandalf’s attention. Gandalf found himself gazing into a pair of wide, troubled blue eyes.

“Your Uncle Bilbo and I would never willingly allow harm to come to you, Frodo,” Gandalf continued when Frodo did not speak.

“I know,” Frodo finally mumbled, dropping his eyes, but he did not sound reassured.

Gandalf hesitated, then put a hand gently on the small back. It had been many years since he had known any children. The wizard felt responsible for bringing Frodo into a dangerous situation, however unknowingly, and the knowledge galled him.

Frodo did not tense or pull away from the touch; he merely sighed and relaxed slightly.

“Stew’s ready,” Bilbo said then, and quickly filled three wooden bowls. He handed one to Gandalf and another to Frodo. “Eat up, dear boy,” the old hobbit said. “You’ll feel better after a nice warm supper.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Frodo replied, and attempted to smile reassuringly at Bilbo.

Bilbo returned the smile, but it didn’t touch the concern in his eyes.

The three of them ate in companionable silence. Gandalf was mildly amused when he realized that Bilbo was not only keeping an eye on how much Frodo ate; the old hobbit kept darting disapproving glances at Gandalf’s bowl as well.

When supper was over, Frodo got up to fetch the pail of wash water Gandalf had collected earlier in the day, and Bilbo’s washbasin.

“I don’t know how you’ve survived so long without wasting away, Gandalf,” Bilbo tutted. “Even Frodo ate more than you did!”

Gandalf chuckled. “I’ve been equally amazed with you, old friend. I cannot fathom where you manage to put it all.”

The friendly banter seemed to help put Frodo at ease, but once the supper dishes were washed, Gandalf noticed Frodo looking surreptitiously into the woods again, and Bilbo glancing worriedly at his young heir.

Gandalf frowned thoughtfully. Vague allusions to power and tactical abstractions were of little comfort to a boy, even one as intelligent as Frodo. No, something more concrete was needed...

Once they were settled around the campfire, and Bilbo and Gandalf had their pipes in hand, Gandalf turned and fixed his gaze on Frodo. “Has Bilbo taught you anything of the Goblin wars, Frodo?”

“Yes, sir,” Frodo replied. The tween looked curiously at Gandalf, bewildered by this unexpected mention of long-ago conflicts.

“Good, good,” the wizard rumbled, ignoring Bilbo’s raised eyebrows and slight smile. “Then you might like to see something of mine—a relic, from those times.”

Frodo’s sapphire eyes lit up with interest. “Truly? What sort of a relic is it?”

“I shall give you a hint,” Gandalf said with a smile. He puffed slowly on his pipe and blew a very peculiarly shaped object of smoke. It was long and thin, and somewhat pointy.

Frodo watched it float past him, wide-eyed. “A... a broom?” he guessed doubtfully.

Bilbo guffawed and Gandalf threw him a dirty look.

“Ah, no. This is something actually used in the wars,” the wizard said to Frodo, trying not to chuckle. “And not for cleaning,” he added wryly.

Frodo frowned and looked again at the smoke-shape, which was now nearly out of sight. “It’s a sword!” the boy murmured finally, comprehension dawning.

“Yes indeed,” Gandalf replied. “It is called ‘Glamdring,’ which means ‘Foe-Hammer.’ Would you like to see it, Frodo?”

Frodo nodded eagerly and sat up straighter. “Oh, yes, please!” the blue-eyed lad exclaimed.

Gandalf chuckled and got to his feet. He pulled back one side of his enormous cloak and reached underneath with his other hand. Frodo watched raptly as the old wizard slowly drew Glamdring from its scabbard and held it level in front of him for Frodo to inspect.

“Elbereth!” Frodo breathed, his eyes widening in amazement as he stared at the sword.

Gandalf smiled at the expression of awe on the young hobbit’s face. Bilbo smiled too, and gestured to Frodo that he should take a closer look.

“What are these markings on the blade, Gandalf?” Frodo asked, leaning forward to inspect the blade.

“Those are runes, my boy,” Gandalf replied. “They give the name of the sword, among other things. The entire blade glows white, when enemies are near.”

Frodo would not have dreamed of asking to touch the beautiful weapon, but his eyes swept along the length of the blade, taking in every detail. It looked as long as Frodo was tall. The colour of the metal was white, but the only glowing in evidence was the flickering campfire reflected along the blade’s surface. Frodo asked his next question in a hushed voice. “How—how old is Glamdring?”

“It was forged in the First Age,” Gandalf said, smiling at Frodo’s barely restrained curiosity. “It was first wielded by Turgon, the Elf king of Gondolin.”

Frodo looked wonderingly first at Bilbo, then at Gandalf. “How came you to possess such a thing?”

The old wizard chuckled. “Why don’t you ask your Uncle Bilbo? He was there.”

Bilbo began to laugh himself, seeing the shocked expression on Frodo’s face.

“What happened, Bilbo?” the tweenager asked eagerly, when he had overcome his surprise.

“Well, it was on our journey with the Dwarves, the ‘Quest of Erebor,’ as I’m certain you have already guessed,” Bilbo began. When Frodo nodded, the old hobbit continued, “after we escaped from the three Trolls, we found their hoard in a cave nearby. Glamdring, along with many other fine weapons, was discovered there.”

Frodo sat digesting the story for a moment. “Is that where you found your sword, Uncle? The one in your stories, which you used to rescue Thorin’s companions from the Giant Spiders of Mirkwood?” he asked suddenly.

Bilbo looked at Frodo in surprise, then chuckled. “This boy is a Baggins, all right,” he murmured to Gandalf. “Very astute. Yes, it did indeed come from the Troll-hoard.” Bilbo hesitated, then continued, “I shall have to show it to you one day, Frodo-lad. I never carry it with me now, of course, unless I’m planning to travel alone outside the Shire.”

Frodo did not ask why Bilbo had not shown it to him already. He knew most of what had happened on Bilbo’s adventure, but Bilbo had never offered to show him more than a few of the treasures he had picked up, and Frodo had never asked for more. Despite living with Bilbo for nearly four years now, Frodo still retained some of the vaguely uncomfortable manners he had been taught to show when staying with hobbits who were not his own parents, and he could never bring himself to beg Bilbo for any indulgences, the way most children did with their parents.

He did not fear Bilbo’s reaction, exactly, for Bilbo had been nothing but kindness itself in all the years Frodo had known him. He had certainly outgrown his childish fear that Bilbo would send him back to Buckland if he misbehaved, but there was still that niggling feeling that he mustn’t presume too much on Bilbo’s generosity.

Thus, Frodo had never asked to see the sword, nor that strange old magic ring that Bilbo was so fond of. He knew Bilbo kept the ring in his pocket most all the time, and Bilbo had once shown him what it could do, but beyond that it was never mentioned, and Frodo could do naught but respect his uncle’s wishes.

When they went to bed that night, Frodo was no longer glancing uneasily into the forest, much to Bilbo’s and Gandalf’s relief. The tweenager felt quite safe and sleepy in his bedroll, and he enjoyed the little thrill of awe he got whenever he looked over at Gandalf, sitting quietly on a log while Bilbo prepared for bed; the old wizard undoubtedly possessed powers that Frodo could not even imagine, and was more than capable of defending their party against any number of mere ruffians.

Some time later, Frodo opened his eyes. He was warm and quite comfortable, and it took him a moment to realize what had woken him.

“It does not bode well, Bilbo,” a voice murmured softly.

“How could they get so close?” whispered Frodo’s uncle. “Are these undesirables getting more desperate? What is to be done?”

Frodo opened his eyes, being careful to move no other part of his body. The quiet conversation between Bilbo and Gandalf sounded entirely too interesting for him to go back to sleep.

“The rest of the world is changing, Bilbo,” Gandalf sighed. “The rangers have much to occupy them in this area. I hadn’t thought it would be this bad, or I should never have asked you to come along, certainly not with a child. But you ought to be quite safe without me once we reach Oatbarton road, and all the way to Buckland.”

Now it was Bilbo’s turn to sigh. “Well, Frodo seems to be having a grand time, regardless. And I for one am glad of it. The boy doesn’t have enough fun, in my opinion. He spends too much time studying and reading, odd as it is for me to be the one saying so. But sometimes I have to recruit our neighbours to drag him out of doors! He is still such a pale little thing, I cannot believe he gets adequate sun and fresh air.”

Frodo made a face. He loved Bilbo dearly, but he couldn’t help it that he didn’t always feel like running and playing boisterously outside with the other children of Hobbiton.

“Well, he is getting his adventure, certainly,” Gandalf said wryly. “He does appear unusually serious for his years. Losing one’s parents at such a young age can have that effect, of course.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed thoughtfully. “But he seems more at ease now, after three and a half years of influence from Mad Baggins.” The old hobbit chuckled ruefully.

Gandalf laughed softly. “He’s happy with you, Bilbo. Any fool can see that.”

“Ahem, yes, well...” Bilbo trailed off, clearly pleased.

Frodo smiled widely in the darkness.

“Has he been back to Buckland since he came to live with you?” Gandalf asked at length.

“No,” Bilbo said slowly. “His favourite cousins have been to visit him at Bag End several times, but Frodo has never asked to visit Brandy Hall, and I haven’t pressed the issue.”

“Hmm,” Gandalf grunted noncommittally.

Frodo began to smell pipeweed, and he could tell by the pattern of Gandalf’s breathing that he was smoking his pipe now. Frodo blinked sleepily, his eyes suddenly feeling a lot heavier than they had a moment ago.

“I hope this visit goes well,” Bilbo added thoughtfully. “I do believe he’s more excited about the journey than the destination. I know the lad will be happy to see young Meriadoc, but he must have mixed feelings about the place. His parents drowned near there, you know, and he was virtually neglected by his Brandybuck relations for eleven years after the accident. To this day he doesn’t seem quite comfortable speaking of his parents, and I rarely hear him speak of his time in Brandy Hall.”

“Everyone must confront his demons at some point,” Gandalf replied quietly. “But Frodo is young to understand such matters. There will be plenty of time for that later, I daresay.”

Frodo was barely listening by this point. The soft murmur of voices had blended together into a soothing background noise, and the tweenager soon dropped back to sleep.

March 12, 1395

Frodo awoke the next morning with the feeling that he had heard something important the night before, but try as he might, he could recall no details. They were travelling northeast now, and Gandalf said they would cross the Oatbarton road tomorrow. Frodo was filled with sadness at the prospect of parting company with Gandalf. Bilbo and Gandalf spoke cheerfully, but Frodo was sensible enough to realize it would likely be years before Gandalf happened by this way again.

They stopped for supper late in the afternoon; the water containers were nearly empty and Bilbo wanted them filled before darkness made it difficult to locate a stream. After Hwesta had been seen to, Gandalf set off to find fresh water. Frodo went along to carry the smaller of their four water jugs while Bilbo remained with the wagon to begin setting up camp.

Frodo’s sensitive ears detected the babbling of a brook only a minute away from their campsite, and he soon had the two small containers filled.

“Why don’t you take those back to Bilbo, my boy,” Gandalf said, smiling at Frodo. “I’ve no doubt you’re both eager to start supper. I shall fill the others and look around a few minutes.”

Frodo nodded agreeably and set off back to the campsite, carrying one water skin in each hand. He set them down carefully next to the pots Bilbo had taken from the wagon. A small pile of wood was laid ready for a fire, but Bilbo was nowhere to be seen.

“Bilbo?” Frodo said, glancing around curiously. Hwesta turned her head and whinnied at him, and Frodo went to stroke the part of her nose that wasn’t buried in her feed bag. He had been rather frightened of the beautiful animal after their first meeting, but he had gradually grown accustomed to her presence. She really could be quite calm when small hobbit boys weren’t dropping unexpectedly into her wagon from above.

Frodo gave Hwesta a last pat and turned around to survey the small clearing that had been chosen as tonight’s campsite. Where could Bilbo have gone?

Hwesta turned her head to regard him with her large, horsey eyes, and whinnied softly. Frodo smiled and was reaching out to pat her again when he heard a faint noise coming from the wagon. The blue-eyed tween pulled himself up onto the wagon’s front axle and peered in.

Bilbo was stretched out on the front bench, taking a nap. Frodo smirked and hopped back down to the ground just as Bilbo emitted another faint snore.

He quickly spied a long, straight stick a few feet away and knew just how to amuse himself while he waited for Gandalf to return. Ever since Gandalf had shown him Glamdring, Frodo had been itching to find a suitable prop and play at sword fighting.

Frodo quickly snatched up the stick and ran a short distance into the woods so as not to disturb Bilbo. He supposed it was a little odd that he still liked to play make-believe sometimes, at his age, but as long as no one saw him he didn’t mind. Besides, when he got to Brandy Hall he could show Merry, and Samwise when he returned to Bag End. Sam still loved to play ‘Ranger’, and Frodo figured such people probably used swords. Shire hobbits knew little about rangers, save what they heard from the occasional traveller from Bree. They were generally reckoned to be wild, unkempt Men from the North, roaming freely on some nefarious business or other. As such, they were highly interesting to the more imaginative hobbit lads.

“I am Frodomir the Fierce,” Frodo said sternly to the hapless birch tree before him. “You seek to defeat me?” He held his mighty stick aloft. “Behold! I have... ah... Brethildring! Birch-hammer!”

Frodo smiled at his own cleverness. He remembered that ‘Brethil’ was the Elvish name for a birch tree, and he had used Glamdring’s suffix for ‘hammer’. He would ask Bilbo later whether that was correct, if he could think of a way to avoid mentioning how the question had come up...

“Take that, you rogue!” Frodo cried, giving the tree trunk a sharp thwap with Brethildring. He proceeded to attack his foe mercilessly, administering blows with his sword in as coordinated a fashion as his untrained arm could manage.

“Keep your elbow tucked in,” advised an unfamiliar voice suddenly.

Frodo yelped in fright and whirled around. There was a full-grown Man standing not ten feet away from him! Frodo did not hesitate long enough to take a good look, or even to wonder what the Big Person meant; he turned and ran in the opposite direction, reproaching himself bitterly for being so inattentive to his surroundings as to allow a noisy, lumbering Man to sneak up on him. What if it was Strasser or Chattin, come back to plunder the Shire for real this time?

Realizing that he was not being pursued, Frodo finally stopped and hid himself in a clump of bushes, panting from the unexpected exertion. His direction had taken him away from Bilbo, and he did not want to go so far as to get lost again.

The cracking of a twig alerted Frodo that the Man had followed him, albeit more slowly. Frodo held his breath and crouched down among the bushes until he was sure he was hidden, and watched apprehensively as the Man came into view. He was frightened, but not nearly as much as yesterday. Now at least he knew where he was, and both Bilbo and Gandalf were within earshot; he could easily call for help if this Big Person discovered him.

The Man looked about, frowning in consternation, and then focused his gaze on the ground. Frodo studied the fellow apprehensively; now that he had time to look, he could see that this was not Strasser nor Chattin. One of their friends, perhaps? He was certainly as dirty and scruffy as those two ruffians, but he appeared much younger. His shoulder-length hair was black and straight, and he wore a long leather overcoat.

Frodo suddenly realized the Big Person was still carefully scrutinizing the ground. The hard-packed earth could not possibly hold his footprints, as far as Frodo knew, but somehow the Man’s gaze travelled along the ground and landed directly on Frodo’s hiding place. The tweenager bit his lip, trying not to move.

But much to Frodo’s surprise, the Man did not come any closer. He stood and gazed steadily at the bushes concealing Frodo, and then, even more surprisingly, he spoke.

“I apologize for startling you,” the Man said, and his voice was unexpectedly gentle. “Won’t you come out?”

“Wh-what is your business with me, sir?” Frodo finally asked. He couldn’t help his voice trembling a little, but he no longer thought the Man would harm him; he had not the coarse manner of a ruffian, and he clearly knew where Frodo was hiding but had made no threatening move.

“I have been tracking Gandalf the Grey all afternoon,” the Man answered. “He is acquainted with me, and I am bid to speak with him. I know he has been travelling with two Halflings, so when I saw you I thought you might be one of his companions. Please don’t be frightened; I will not harm you.”

Frodo stared at the Big Person and slowly rose to his feet. This was clearly no ruffian, and with a burst of curiosity, Frodo suddenly wondered if he might in fact be one of the mysterious protectors of the Shire whom Gandalf had mentioned.

The Man’s face lit up with relief when he saw the small hobbit, and he bowed low. “Faramond Rushlight, at your service,” he said amiably.

“Frodo Baggins, at yours and your family’s,” Frodo returned correctly, smiling as he bowed in turn. The Man’s disarming friendliness and honesty had quenched his fear. He stepped out of the bushes and walked over to the Big Person, who had been careful to come no closer during the exchange. “Shall I bring you to Gandalf then, Mr. Rushlight?”

“Thank you, yes,” the Man replied, smiling kindly at Frodo. “But please call me Faramond, if you will.”

Faramond was created by one of my all-time favourite LOTR authors, Tathar, in her fic “Always a Silver Lining.” Tathar very generously agreed to lend me Faramond for this (and the next) chapter, and Faramond’s exchange of greetings with Frodo is taken almost untouched from ASL.

35. Faramond Rushlight

“Our camp is just ahead, Faramond,” Frodo said shyly.

Faramond had been seeking Gandalf for days, and he was relieved that he would be able to complete his mission at last. The man smiled at Frodo and nodded his thanks. He had realized quickly that this young Halfling was not accustomed to encountering men, and he had no wish to frighten the boy.

He followed along behind Frodo, marvelling at how lightly and soundlessly those unshod feet trod on the forest floor. Faramond had been training for years to track with stealth, but his abilities were no match for Frodo’s. Faramond doubted that even his mentor would be able to detect a Halfling that did not wish to be heard. He had seen Halflings before, of course, but he had never had much opportunity to interact with them or observe them closely.

“Nearly there,” Frodo said, glancing back over his shoulder with enormous blue eyes.

Faramond smiled again. Judging by the number of wide-eyed glances he’d received, Frodo was as curious about him as he was about Frodo. The boy looked as if he were barely restraining himself from asking a thousand questions.

“Frodo-lad,” came a voice from just ahead. “Good, there you are! Supper is about ready, so if you’ll just...”

The speaker trailed off as Faramond stepped into the clearing behind Frodo.

The man halted a good distance away from the older Halfling he had startled. “Faramond Rushlight, a friend of Gandalf’s, at your service,” he said with a bow.

“Bilbo Baggins at yours,” the old Halfling said after a moment of staring, recovering his equanimity with impressive quickness. “Gandalf should be back in a minute. You’re welcome to join us for supper,” he added with a suddenly welcoming smile.

“Thank you,” Faramond replied in surprise. Bilbo’s gaze was curious but unafraid, and Faramond deduced that this Halfling had guessed he was a ranger, merely from his appearance and acquaintance with Gandalf.

“Gandalf is back already,” rumbled a voice from behind him, and Faramond turned to find the wizard approaching with buckets of water in both his hands.

Faramond smiled and bowed. “Gandalf. It has been a long time.”

Frodo looked even more interested now, if that were possible, but he hurried to take the water from Gandalf. The two Halflings began to prepare supper, leaving Faramond and Gandalf in relative privacy.

“Sit down, young man, and tell me how you’ve been,” Gandalf said, settling himself on a log.

“I’ve been well,” Faramond replied, obediently sitting on a mossy rock near the wizard. “My training is nearly complete, in fact.”

“Good, good,” Gandalf said with a fatherly smile. “I always knew you’d do well.” The wizard chuckled and pulled out his pipe.

Faramond marvelled at how Gandalf could remember an insignificant boy from an insignificant town in the North, let alone be fond of him. “I come with word for you from my mentor,” Faramond said finally, figuring he should get down to business. He knew how fortunate he was to have been singled out by the Chieftain of the Dúnedain for training, and he was determined to live up to the responsibilities given to him.

“I thought you might,” Gandalf replied. “And what does old Strider have to say, hmm?”

“We’ve been hearing rumours that two men wanted in Bree have escaped their pursuers and are headed in this direction,” Faramond began. “Aragorn said you were travelling through here and he sent me ahead to find you. I’m to ask if you’ve seen any sign of these men.”

Gandalf nodded as though he had been expecting the question, and proceeded to relate an amazing tale to Faramond.

The young man turned to watch Frodo cheerfully adding items to an enormous cooking pot under his uncle’s direction. “He was lucky,” Faramond said with a frown. Strasser and Chattin were well known to him, and he shuddered at the thought of Frodo being in their power. He was already becoming fond of the little Halfling.

“Yes,” Gandalf agreed soberly. “They were searching for the Shire. I directed them up north, so we shan’t see them anytime soon.”

Faramond unconsciously fingered the hilt of his sword. He was eager to put his training to good use.

“Perhaps you’d better stay with us tonight, and give Aragorn a chance to catch up with you,” Gandalf suggested, as though reading Faramond’s thoughts.

Faramond agreed reluctantly. A ranger knew when to exercise prudence.

Hobbits, wizard, and man ate their supper with good appetite. No one would tell Frodo who Faramond was or why he was here, but neither did anyone contradict the tweenager when he guessed Faramond to be one of Gandalf’s mysterious protectors of the Shire.

Gandalf and Bilbo were talking quietly together, leaving Frodo free to question the intriguing new arrival.

“Faramond,” Frodo said, “what did you mean back there by the tree, about keeping my elbow up?”

Faramond smiled and put down his tin cup. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Frodo,” the man apologized again. “I thought you were practicing your sword fighting technique, and I noticed your arm was wrongly positioned.”

“I was only playing,” Frodo admitted sheepishly. “Hobbits don’t have swords, or any other weapon, generally. But you know how to use a sword?”

“Of course,” Faramond replied. He pulled back the edge of his cloak so Frodo could see the hilt of his sword, smiling as the Halfling’s eyes grew to the size of saucers.

“Does it have a name?” Frodo asked eagerly.

“Belegmír,” Faramond replied.

“Well, I dropped mine back by the tree,” Frodo said, “but its name was Brethildring.”

Faramond looked at him oddly for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “Birch-hammer! Very clever, Frodo.”

Frodo grinned. Somehow he wasn’t embarrassed to have this man know about his make-believe games. “Will you teach me a little?” the tween asked hopefully.

Faramond regarded him with serious grey eyes. “I—I don’t know if that would be wise, Frodo,” he said finally. “You’re only a child.”

Frodo tried not to show his disappointment, but before he could think of a new topic of conversation, he heard a dry chuckle from his uncle.

“How old are you, Faramond?” Bilbo asked.

“Twenty-six summers,” Faramond replied.

“So is Frodo,” Bilbo said. “Go ahead and teach him something, if you like. I daresay we’ll never get him to sleep tonight otherwise.”

Frodo looked hopefully at Faramond. “Please?”

The man had no hope of resisting those beseeching azure eyes, and he nodded slowly. “Very well. But I cannot see how you might be the same age as me!”

Frodo jumped up with delight. “Hobbits age differently than Men,” he explained with a shrug before running off to find suitable sword-sticks.

Aragorn arrived late that night when the fire had burned down to embers. Faramond was keeping watch, although Gandalf was awake as well. The young man was sitting with his back to the fire, alert and watchful, when he heard sounds that signalled a stealthy approach.

“Hullo, Aragorn,” Faramond said before his mentor came into view. The two Halflings were asleep, but he spoke softly.

“You recognized my tread,” the Chieftain of the Dúnedain said approvingly, stepping into the faint circle of firelight. “Greetings, my friend,” he added when his gaze fell on Gandalf.

Gandalf inclined his head in reply, and allowed Faramond to bring Aragorn up to date.

“Faramond and I will leave tonight,” Aragorn decided, once he had heard everything. “If all goes well, we can apprehend the ruffians and turn them over to the authorities in Annuminas before you meet us there.”

Gandalf nodded in agreement. “They won’t have gotten far. Frodo kicked one in the knee and may have done serious damage. He was limping noticeably when last I saw him.”

Faramond stifled a grin at this; he was hardly surprised. On the surface, the lad appeared to be a fragile little thing, but an hour and a half of training Frodo in sword-fighting moves, followed by a fierce mock battle with sticks, had taught Faramond that the young Halfling possessed indomitable resilience and great heart. When Frodo’s stick had gone flying into the brush after a particularly frustrating effort, Faramond had assumed Frodo would not wish to continue. But Frodo went diving after the stick and rooted around until he found it, at considerable cost in scratches to his arms and legs, and asked Faramond to demonstrate the move again and again until he could do it correctly.

“Frodo?” Aragorn muttered, frowning. “I know that name...”

Faramond and Gandalf looked at Aragorn in surprise, but the Chieftain of the Dúnedain was already moving silently to the other side of the camp-fire. He bent down to peer at Frodo’s sleeping face. Then he smiled suddenly and rejoined his companions.

“As I thought,” Aragorn said. “I found that boy lost in the woods some seven years ago. Near Buckland, I believe.”

Gandalf’s bushy brows lifted. “You remember a chance encounter after so long?”

Aragorn grinned again, much to Faramond’s amazement. It was a rare event for his mentor to smile without irony. “Frodo is a memorable lad. You must keep an eye on this little one, Gandalf.”

“That I certainly shall,” Gandalf replied with a smile of his own.

Faramond couldn’t help imagining how disappointed Frodo would be to awaken in the morning and find him gone. From the way Aragorn spoke, he assumed that Frodo would not recognize Aragorn if he saw him again, but Faramond knew he would have found this late-night conference dreadfully exciting.

“Are you ready?” Aragorn asked him softly. Faramond nodded and bowed quickly to Gandalf. While Aragorn in turn had a few final words with the wizard, Faramond moved to bid Frodo a silent farewell. He watched the peaceful face for a moment and struggled again to understand how such innocence could have survived an encounter with the likes of Strasser and Chattin.

“It is time we were away,” Aragorn said, coming to stand beside his student.

“How did they get so close, Aragorn?” Faramond asked desperately, crouching down to look at the bright, pure spirit he had become fond of in a few short hours. “How did we miss them?”

“We do the best we can,” Aragorn said quietly, also looking at Frodo.

Faramond glanced quickly up at his mentor. “Those two are murderers,” he whispered, his voice pained. “This child might have been killed. Am I weak for being affected so?” Faramond returned his gaze to the sleeping Halfling boy without waiting for a reply. He had endeavoured earlier to wear Frodo out with swordplay, and he had clearly succeeded, because the lad did not stir. It was the least he could do, for a child who had been put in danger because the rangers had failed to fulfil their duties.

“If it is a weakness, then I share it, Faramond,” Aragorn said with a faint smile. “It is well that you have seen what you are working to protect,” he added, not unkindly. “The memory will serve you well in the years ahead. Come.”

Faramond hesitated, then reached out and smoothed the dark, silky curls away from Frodo’s forehead in a mute caress. The young man’s palm was rough and callused, but Frodo only smiled slightly in his sleep. Faramond straightened and followed Aragorn away from the camp, and soon they were swallowed up by the dark forest.

Gandalf filled his pipe again and settled down to keep the watch.

March 13, 1395

When Frodo awoke the next morning, the only one up was Bilbo. He could see Gandalf resting against the log, but Faramond was nowhere in sight. He had known that Faramond would likely leave during the night; they had said their goodbyes after supper. Frodo sighed and sat up, trying not to dwell on the termination of a promising acquaintance.

Bilbo looked up and smiled when he heard his nephew stir. “Sleep well, Frodo-lad?” the old hobbit asked.

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo said after a moment. “And you?”

“Very well. Sleeping on the ground is hard on these old bones, but the fresh air can’t be beat,” Bilbo said cheerfully, handing Frodo a plate of dried meat and bread for breakfast.

Frodo ate ravenously, ignoring the tastelessness of the food. He would never admit to Bilbo that he was wearying of travel rations, but the thought of finally getting on to Buckland, with all the associated pantries, was making his mouth water.

Gandalf and Bilbo ate as well, and Frodo noticed that no one seemed to be in any particular hurry this morning. Gandalf finally loaded the last few things into his wagon and stood looking pensively at Bilbo and Frodo.

“Are you ready, dear hobbits?” he asked finally, smiling a little. “It isn’t much farther now.”

Frodo’s stomach seemed to drop down to his feet. In all the excitement of yesterday, he had forgotten that they would reach the Oatbarton road today, and he and Bilbo would have to say goodbye to Gandalf.

Bilbo saw his nephew’s face tighten with the realization. The old hobbit sighed and put an arm around Frodo’s shoulders. “Come along, dear boy,” he said briskly, and helped Frodo clamber into the wagon.

Both hobbits sat on the wagon’s front bench today, beside Gandalf. The weather was fine and the forest quiet as Hwesta walked along the faint path. Frodo looked at Gandalf and tried not to feel his heart aching. He had known the wizard less than a fortnight and yet somehow he felt he’d known him all his life. The tweenager was rather startled to realize how much he would miss Gandalf.

Frodo glanced sideways at his uncle’s peaceful face. Bilbo had known Gandalf much longer, of course, and had far more reason to be sad.

They crossed the Oatbarton road a few hours after noon, and Bilbo and Frodo climbed down. Gandalf got down as well and handed the two hobbits their packs.

“Take care of yourself, old friend,” Bilbo said to Gandalf with a fond smile and a hug.

“And you, Bilbo,” Gandalf rumbled, returning the hug.

Frodo hung back, suddenly shy, when the wizard turned clear grey eyes his way.

“Keep your rascal of an uncle out of trouble, Frodo,” Gandalf said with a wink, and moved to climb back into his wagon.

After a moment, Frodo ran forward and hugged Gandalf impulsively.

The old wizard chuckled and patted his back. “I’ll see you again, Frodo Baggins,” he muttered into the tween’s ear. “Of that you may be sure.”

They watched Gandalf and Hwesta drive off, and then Bilbo gave Frodo’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Are you having a good adventure, Frodo-lad?”

Frodo looked around at the peaceful forest as they began walking southeast along the road, and felt content. He could understand why Bilbo was so fond of travelling. “I am indeed, Uncle.”

Bilbo began to sing one of his favourite walking songs, and Frodo hummed along, enjoying the companionable mood with his favourite relative.

Frodo had been dwelling on the journey too much to spare much consideration for the destination, but now he found his thoughts turning to his cousin Merry, waiting for them to arrive in Buckland. He would be turning thirteen on April 4th, and Frodo hadn’t seen him in over a year. What was Merry doing now? Were his favourite foods still the same? Had he learnt to read yet?

It was odd to think that he and Bilbo would be in Buckland in less than a week; Frodo wasn’t certain how he felt about this prospect. He rarely thought of his time at Brandy Hall anymore, and he never thought about his parents’ deaths if he could help it. He remembered having nightmares for months after the long-ago accident, and his mind shied away from dredging up memories of those dark times.

Bilbo sometimes spoke of happier times with Drogo and Primula, when Frodo was very young or before he was born. Frodo liked hearing about his parents on those occasions, but he never allowed himself to think too deeply about them, frightened that he might feel again the terrible ache of longing and sadness that had gripped him often in Brandy Hall.

Those days seemed very distant, after living with Bilbo for the last three years, and Frodo had to admit to himself, he was a little uneasy about going back. But Merry would be there, and little Pippin would be there too, for Merry’s birthday party. There was much to look forward to.

36. Waiting for the Bagginses

Brandy Hall, March 20, 1395

Poppy Puddifoot drained the washtub and wiped her hands on her apron just as a couple of shrieking Brandybuck hobbitlings raced through the kitchen and out the garden door.

"Mind where you're goin', lads!" she called after them half-heartedly, knowing they were already out of range. Brandy Hall was always chaotic, but working in its kitchens for nearly thirty years had taught Poppy to pay no mind to the commotion. The close quarters and the noise had never bothered her, for she'd grown up in a tiny farmhouse on the outskirts of Buckland with four sisters and five brothers. Poppy shook her head as a group of lasses clattered in the hall. The younger children had been especially wild the last week or so. She supposed all the excitement could be attributed to the young master's fast approaching birthday.

Little Meriadoc would be thirteen years old in a fortnight, and all of Buckland seemed ready to celebrate. Hobbits didn't normally throw large parties for their offspring at such a young age, but as Saradoc's son, Merry was in line to be master of Buckland one day. Poppy supposed it was only to be expected that the lad would enjoy a certain amount of privilege. Still, Merry was a sweet-natured child despite his burgeoning love of mischief, and she was fond of him. She only hoped he wouldn't become spoiled and arrogant as he grew old enough to understand his position.

"There's enough o' that to go round as it is," Poppy muttered to herself as she watched young Bolo Brandybuck stroll into the kitchen and grab a dinner roll from the basket without asking.

"I saw Alar lurking around the market today," the 30-year-old hobbit said with an insolent wink just before he bit into the roll. "You might catch him if you hurry."

"Those are fer supper, Mr. Bolo," Poppy said primly, refusing to be drawn into a discussion of her private affairs with the unpredictable tween. "There are plenty o' leftovers in the pantry if you're hungry."

Bolo took another bite of his ill-gotten dinner roll before sauntering off toward the pantry, and Poppy, shaking her head in exasperation, took up her knife and turned to the waiting pile of taters. Bolo no longer seemed interested in bullying the younger children as he had in years gone by, preferring now to keep mostly to his own sullen company, but he could certainly be infuriating when he wanted to be. The tweenager knew quite well that Poppy could ill afford to leave her work in the middle of the day; she needed her earnings to help support her parents and younger siblings away in Hardbottle. Never mind that Alar Goodchild was a kind, decent hobbit who had been trying to court her for the past year. Never mind that she was 53 years old and more than ready to settle down and start a family of her own.

Poppy had no free time to spend with Alar, especially lately with all the guests beginning to pour in for the birthday, and the shy farmer's patience would no doubt wear thin soon enough. She might very well miss her best chance for love and a home of her own and it was plain cruel of Bolo to remind her of it.

"Did you see anyone else of interest, Mr. Bolo?" Poppy couldn't resist calling as the tweenager emerged with an apple in each hand. "I hear Mr. Bilbo Baggins and his nephew are expected today."

Bolo scowled at her and left the kitchen without replying, and Poppy smirked to herself. It had been four years since Frodo had moved away, but she knew Bolo still disliked the younger boy intensely. Frodo had once been a frequent target of Bolo's cruelty, from the tender age of twelve, but in the end he had been the unwitting cause of Bolo's humiliation before the whole Brandybuck clan. Bolo always scowled whenever the name of Baggins was mentioned.

Frodo had always been a favourite with Poppy, however, and she was quite looking forward to the lad's visit. She had held a motherly affection for the blue-eyed hobbitling from the first time she had found him wandering Brandy Hall alone, lost and adrift on a sea of sadness after losing his parents and being brought to live with his Brandybuck relations. She had watched him grow increasingly quiet and withdrawn over the eleven years he had lived here, and she had been overjoyed when mad old Bilbo Baggins adopted Frodo and took him to Hobbiton.

Frodo had spent much of his time in this very kitchen, hiding from the older boys or simply wanting company. He was unfailingly polite and liked to help Poppy with her work, and the kitchen maid couldn't help but be charmed by the thoughtful little boy. She had missed Frodo when he went away, but she was glad Bilbo had taken him in. Bilbo might be cracked as folks often said, but he clearly loved Frodo as his own child; Poppy knew he would give the lad the attention and affection he lacked at Brandy Hall.

Poppy finished slicing the taters and slid them into the enormous pot of stew. She craned her neck to peer out the little round window that opened onto the garden. She knew she couldn't see the road from here, but the action was instinctive. Poppy sighed and began to stir the bubbling mixture. She really ought to know better than to presume Frodo would come to see her. Much would have changed in four years; Frodo would be about 26 now, and the lad would doubtless have better things to do with his time than visit a boring old kitchen maid whom he likely wouldn't even remember by now.

Merry had been one of Frodo's favourite cousins, and she had heard he was close to the recently arrived Paladin and Eglantine Took and their children; Frodo would have plenty of excitement to occupy him on this visit. Still, Poppy couldn't quite convince some part of herself that Frodo might not just come see her anyway. And if he didn't, she would try to get a look at him sometime; she wanted to see for herself that the little boy she had become so fond of was well cared for and happy.

Pyrimidine Brandybuck put down her needlework and looked seriously at the other lady. "I tell you, Iris, Esmeralda has the most dreadful taste in dresses."

Iris nodded emphatically, motioning out the window with her pointy nose. "Why, just look at her! No thought for her position at all. Disgraceful, really."

Pyrimidine peered out the window for a moment, watching as Esmeralda, in her plain work dress, walked through the vegetable garden listening attentively to two grubby farmers. "You know what I heard," she said knowingly to her companion.

Iris leaned forward, and Pyrimidine's small eyes brightened with anticipation. Gossip was her life's blood, and she relished the opportunity to dole out a particularly juicy tidbit as she chose. As Iris had only moved into Brandy Hall with her husband and children two years ago, there was plenty Pyrimidine could tell her.

"I heard that her father, old Adalgrim Took, didn't approve of the marriage," Pyrimidine said, lowering her voice. "In fact, it's said he never consented to see his grandson, and you know he died years back."

Iris frowned. "I thought Adalgrim passed on the same year Merry was born," she said. "He wouldn't have had much time to see the lad, if that were the case."

"Well," Pyrimidine huffed. "I'm only telling it as I heard it." She was prevented from further expression of her indignance by Bolo's appearance in the doorway. Her son's scowl deepened when he saw Iris and Pyrimidine deep in their inane chatter, but he came in nonetheless.

"When's Dad getting back, Mum?" Bolo asked sullenly, closing the door behind him.

"Next week, darling," Pyrimidine answered absently, returning her gaze to the window. "Did you see your cousin Esmeralda today? That dress she has on is dreadful."

Bolo rolled his eyes and continued to his bedroom without replying. Pyrimidine frowned in annoyance when he slammed the door.

Iris looked at Pyrimidine quizzically. "Bolo seems rather more... irritable than usual," she said tactfully.

Pyrimidine waved her off. "Bolo is a good boy," she said, picking up her needlework again. "I imagine he's just upset about that Baggins brat showing up today."

"Poor dear," Iris said sympathetically. "I've heard so many dreadful things about those Bagginses, especially Bilbo and Frodo. No wonder your Bolo had so much trouble with that child. It's a wonder Esmeralda allows her son anywhere near him!"

Pyrimidine nodded in agreement and looked outside again. Now she could see young Merry scampering about behind his mother. "It's a disgrace, is what it is," she said firmly. "I can't imagine why Saradoc allows it. My Gus is often away on business, as you know, but you can be sure he would never encourage Bolo to associate with such a child!"

"Oh, certainly not," Iris agreed. "Gustaroc is such a clever hobbit; I can't tell you how lucky you are to have him."

Pyrimidine smiled modestly. She knew her friend's husband was a dull fellow who liked his ale a little too much, but she was proud of herself for catching Gustaroc. She knew she was not smart like her husband, but her father was wealthy and so she had gotten what she wanted in the end.

"Bolo spent time with Frodo nonetheless, didn't he?" Iris continued.

"Why, Bolo was never anything but kind to Frodo, and how did that little beast repay him? He got him lost in the forest, is what. At night, no less! My poor darling might have died!" Pyrimidine was warming to her subject.

"Is it true, what they say?" Iris had turned serious. "About the boy's parents."

Pyrimidine looked at her friend with interest. "What have you heard, Iris, dear?"

"That he pushed her in, and she pulled him in after. When they drowned I mean."

"Oh, I feel quite sure it is," Pyrimidine said, nodding.

"But no one knows, do they?"

"No," Pyrimidine admitted reluctantly. "No one knows."

Esmeralda concluded her business with the gardeners and smiled when she saw Saradoc come out the garden door. Merry ran to hug him and then began capering about the garden, laughing in his excitement. "I'm going to find Pippin!" the boy shouted, and ran back inside at Esmeralda's nod.

"I could hardly keep up with him this morning," Saradoc said with a smile, coming to stand beside his wife.

Esmeralda laughed. "Well, I daresay it will all be over soon enough. Perhaps this will teach us not to give Merry a big party every year!"

Saradoc put his arm around her waist and they started to walk inside together. "Actually, I believe today's excitement is due to the impending arrival of a certain favourite cousin, my dear," he said, smiling.

"Oh yes, Frodo will be here today!" Esmeralda exclaimed. "I do hope he and Bilbo have held up all right; last I heard from Bilbo, they were planning to take a circuitous route and make an adventure of it."

"That certainly sounds like Bilbo," Saradoc mused. "I am looking forward to seeing them again. Especially Frodo. That boy has had a difficult time."

Esmeralda smiled up at her husband impishly. "Darling, you just want to congratulate yourself again on coming up with the idea of having Bilbo adopt the lad," she teased.

"Well, there is that," Saradoc said lightly, and Esmeralda laughed as he kissed her on the top of her curly head.

Meriadoc Brandybuck ran down the hall at full speed, heedless of the exasperated sighs of the adults he sidestepped. The soon-to-be birthday boy skidded to a halt in the doorway of the guest room that was his destination and paused. There were too many hobbits in the room for him to see immediately if his little cousin Pippin was present.

"He looks absolutely darling!" Pearl Took exclaimed in delight, and Merry began to suspect that Pippin was definitely present, and in dire need of rescue.

"Just like a little doll," Pimpernel agreed, and the girls giggled.

Merry tried to peer around the Took lasses and Eglantine to see if Pippin was indeed the subject of this distasteful discussion.

"Am not a doll," an irritated voice piped from the centre of the group.

"Your new waistcoat looks splendid, darling," Eglantine said, reaching forward automatically to still her son's little hands. "Don't pull! You'll pop that button right off."

"Why do I hafta wear this, Mama?" the voice had turned pleading.

"Now, sweetheart, we want you to look your best for your cousin Merry's birthday party," Eglantine said gaily. "Besides, you're a big boy now – five years old! – and big boys wear waistcoats."

Merry heard an unintelligible muttering from his unfortunate cousin and decided it was time to mount a rescue.

"Can I play with Pippin?" Merry asked, stepping into the room to address Eglantine.

The hobbit lady smiled wryly and ruffled Merry's light brown curls. "You go right ahead, dear," she said. "I think he's had quite enough of us for the moment. Come along, girls! We'll go wash up for dinner."

As his sisters and mother filed out, Pippin looked up and smiled happily at the sight of Merry. His green eyes sparkled as he pulled himself up from the floor. "Merry!" he cried, reaching out small chubby arms to his beloved cousin.

"Frodo's coming today, Pip!" Merry exclaimed jubilantly, rushing forward to seize the toddler's hands and whirl him around. "We're going to see Frodo!"

Peregrin Took's earnest little face creased with concentration. "What’s he look like, Merry?" he asked seriously when Merry had let him go and collapsed grinning to the floor.

"You’ve met him before, silly Took!" Merry chortled. "You used to call him 'Fwo'." The older lad rolled over and sat up. "Or sometimes 'Pretty'," he added with a smirk.

"'Pretty'!" Pippin repeated curiously. "Why, Merry?"

"I don't know, but I bet he'd like to ask you that himself," Merry said. "Don't you remember all the stories I've told you of Frodo? He's the one who made up all those games and taught me to nick apples from the pantry when no one's looking."

Pippin had become absorbed with the buttons on his tiny new waistcoat and didn't reply immediately.

"You want that off?" Merry asked, immediately guessing what was going through his little cousin's mind. "Here, I'll do it."

"I don't like buttons," Pippin announced as he let Merry brush his hands aside. The toddler watched contentedly as Merry undid all the buttons with the practiced ease of nearly thirteen years.

"You'll get used to 'em," Merry assured him. "But for now, we'll put this away and hope your mum doesn't notice. Let's go outside and wait for Frodo!"

Pippin nodded eagerly and jumped up, glad to be free of that maddening garment. "When's he coming?" the toddler asked, taking Merry's hand trustingly.

"Could be any time now," Merry said, leading his little cousin down the hallway toward the north entrance to Brandy Hall. "They're coming from Hobbiton, but I heard my dad say they'd be here by suppertime."

"Where's Hobbiton?" Pippin asked curiously as they stepped out into the midafternoon sunshine.

"Oh, it's far away," Merry replied.

"Past the stable?" The stables on the other side of the yard were the farthest away Pippin was allowed to stray from Brandy Hall in Merry's company.

"Far past the stable, Pip," Merry said with a grin. He settled on a tree stump at the side of the lane and pulled Pippin up beside him, eager for the arrival of his admired cousin.

37. Arrival at Brandy Hall

Pippin shifted on the tree stump so he could lean more comfortably against Merry's side. He took his thumb out of his mouth just long enough to speak.

"Is that them, Merry?" the toddler asked, indicating a blond tweenager walking along beside an old gaffer.

"No, Pippin," Merry replied. "That's just an old farmer and his lad. Can't you tell? Frodo and Bilbo won’t be wearing work clothes. Besides, Frodo has dark hair."

"Oh," Pippin said, and returned to scrutinizing the hobbits coming in and out of the north gate to Brandy Hall. There were a lot of them; Merry had said that was because it was nearing the end of the work day and hobbits were going home to their suppers. Pippin watched an old couple approach and go inside the gate, followed by a group of lasses his sisters' ages a few minutes later. Pippin laid his head on Merry's arm and went back to sucking his thumb, but his green eyes stayed open and alert. He was making a game out of trying to guess which pair was Bilbo and Frodo before Merry could tell him.

"How about them?" Another lad with an older hobbit had just come into view.

"Sorry, Pip," Merry said. "That boy isn't much older than I am! Frodo is twenty-six."

Pippin sat up slightly, his eyes widening in alarm. "Twenty-six? I didn't think he'd be so old, Merry!" Pippin had been envisioning another boy Merry's age, not some adult. He shrank against Merry's side, feeling shy.

"That's not old, Pippin," Merry laughed, but he stopped when he caught sight of his little cousin's worried face. "You're not going to go and be frightened of Frodo now, are you?" he asked, reaching over to mess up Pippin's hair.

Pippin hated it when adults ruffled his light brown hair, but somehow the way Merry did it never bothered him. He shook his head to make the curls his mother had carefully arranged fly out from his head, knowing this always made Merry laugh. "I'm not frightened," he added primly when Merry got his breath back, and Merry grinned at him.

Pippin wasn't afraid of Frodo. Well, maybe a little. He liked Merry and some of his friends, but the boys who were even older were loud and frightening, and in any case they never paid Pippin much attention when he visited Brandy Hall. Merry didn't spend much time with the older Brandybuck boys either, but he had spoken of Frodo so admiringly for as long as Pippin could remember, he felt sure this Baggins tweenager would be so extraordinary as to be downright intimidating, if he ever noticed Pippin at all.

"Don't worry, you'll like Frodo," Merry assured him, and Pippin felt a little better. "And Uncle Bilbo! You'll hear the best stories from him, you wait."

Pippin sat up straighter. He liked stories, and he knew all the children were looking forward to hearing Bilbo's, for the old hobbit was widely considered one of the best storytellers around.

"Is that them, Merry?" Pippin asked suddenly.

Merry looked and then started to laugh. "That's a lady, you silly Took!" he chortled, looking at the sour-faced old hobbitlady hustling her grandson up the path. "Can't you tell?"

"No, behind them," Pippin said impatiently. Merry was never going to let him forget that he had mistakenly addressed his Aunt Pyrimidine as 'Uncle' the week before.

Sure enough, another pair of hobbits was soon visible behind the old lady. Pippin had felt sure that these were Bilbo and Frodo; it was hard to make out details at this distance, but the boy looked older than Merry and had dark hair. Pippin knew he had guessed correctly when Merry slipped down from his perch on the tree stump and ran toward the pair, joyfully crowing "Frodo! Uncle Bilbo!"

Pippin got down too and followed more slowly, his thumb still in his mouth. He trailed shyly behind Merry and stopped when Merry launched himself at Frodo. Merry was chattering excitedly even as Frodo attempted to return the hug. Bilbo started to laugh, and Pippin liked him immediately.

When Merry finally released Frodo, Pippin reluctantly approached and tried to stay behind Merry as much as he could. He peered at Frodo with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension as he hooked the thumb that wasn't in his mouth around the back of Merry's braces.

Merry felt the tug on his trousers and pulled a panicking Pippin in front of him. "This one's a little shy," Pippin heard Merry say, but he kept his face hidden in Merry's crimson waistcoat.

"Why, you must be Peregrin Took!" Bilbo exclaimed, giving the child's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You were a good deal smaller the last time we saw you."

Pippin kept a tight grip on Merry, but turned his head to look at Bilbo. He saw a kind face full of good humour, and smiled shyly.

Bilbo chuckled. "Why don't you give me your pack, Frodo-lad, and I'll leave you lads to get reacquainted before supper."

"Thank you, Uncle."

Pippin heard Frodo shrug out of his pack and then Bilbo walked on up the road, whistling cheerfully.

"Turn around, silly Took," Merry said, laughing. "Frodo doesn't bite."

Pippin glanced briefly at the figure still standing patiently before him, and then looked up at Merry with wide green eyes. "Are you sure, Merry?" he whispered, hoping Frodo wouldn't overhear.

Merry and Frodo exchanged looks, and Pippin realized Merry's sides were shaking with suppressed laughter.

"I'm sure, Pip," Merry said finally. "Come on, let's sit down. We've still got an hour before supper." He sank down to the grass and pulled Pippin into his lap, and thus the toddler finally came face to face with the daunting Frodo.

The tweenager had dropped to the ground as well, and he sat in the grass watching Pippin.

Pippin stared. He had never seen anyone who looked like Frodo; he was more pale and slender than the average hobbit, and his russet curls were certainly not a colour Pippin was accustomed to, but there was something more. Pippin blinked. He couldn't stop looking at those eyes – they were the same colour as the sky, and they seemed to shine with a clear light as they gazed warmly at Pippin.

"Hullo, Pippin," Frodo said finally, smiling. "You don't remember me, do you?"

Pippin shook his head wordlessly. He decided he liked Frodo's voice; it was quiet and gentle, not harsh or boisterous like some of the older lads at Brandy Hall.

"Well, I remember you," Frodo continued. "You came to visit me and Bilbo when you were just a baby."

"I did?" Pippin said curiously. He scooted forward a little.

Frodo nodded. "Your family and Merry's family had come for Yule. You scampered all over the floor and tried to put everything you could reach into your mouth."

"Just like now," Merry teased, and Frodo smiled again.

Pippin slid forward a little more, out of Merry's lap, so that he was sitting on the ground in front of Frodo. The obvious warmth and easy friendship between Merry and Frodo made Pippin feel relaxed and happy, although he wasn't sure why. He liked seeing Frodo smile.

"What else did I do, Frodo?" Pippin asked shyly.

"Well, you emptied an entire jar of Marish Pippin applesauce over my bedroom floor," Frodo said as Merry giggled. "That's how you came by your pet name, you know."

Pippin didn't understand what the tweenager meant, but when Frodo extended his hands in silent invitation Pippin immediately took them and allowed himself to be pulled into Frodo's lap.

"Tell Pip what he used to call you, Frodo!" Merry said, sitting back in the grass and grinning.

"Er—Fwo. You called me 'Fwo,' Pippin," Frodo said after a brief hesitation. "You couldn't pronounce my name, I suppose."

"Merry said I used to call you 'Pretty,'" Pippin piped up, rapidly losing his shyness. "How come, Frodo?"

Pippin didn't understand why Frodo just stared at him, open-mouthed and turning slightly pink, while Merry howled with laughter.

Frodo navigated the warren of Brandy Hall with relative ease, considering it had been four years. Everything looked a little smaller than he remembered, but he'd had no trouble finding his way to the guest room he would be sharing with Bilbo, and now he was nearly at the dining hall without taking one wrong turn.

The tweenager had been sorry to leave Merry and Pippin outside; he did not have many happy memories of Brandy Hall but he was truly looking forward to spending time with his two cousins. Frodo had reluctantly extricated himself from the younger lads' eager chatter, for he knew he had to wash up before supper was served. He recalled well enough that no one would notice whether he came for supper or not, but show up covered in dirt and there would be an uproar.

Frodo smiled slightly as he manoeuvred past another gaggle of noisy hobbits. He didn't mind for himself—indeed, he had both skipped meals and gone to meals dirty on many occasions in his time living under Brandy Hill, and might have been labelled a runaway had anyone ever noticed how often he was missing—but he knew tongues would wag, and he hated the gossip. He did not want it said that Bilbo wasn't raising him properly.

Of course, that would likely be said regardless, just as the ghastly story of his parents' drowning each other was still passed around, Frodo knew. The latter was just cruel conjecture, of course, since no one had claimed to witness the accident fifteen years ago, but there was nothing Frodo could do to refute it, even if anyone would be so vulgar as to repeat it in his presence.

As to the former, Frodo didn't intend to begin this visit by giving his relations anything with which to reproach Bilbo. Well, anything else; they already thought he was mad.

Frodo chuckled ruefully at the thought, but nearly stopped in his tracks when he noticed he was about to pass Bolo Brandybuck coming in the other direction. His cousin was almost of age now, but his features had not changes so much that Frodo didn't recognize him instantly.

"Hullo, Bolo," Frodo said reluctantly.

Bolo looked startled for a moment when he saw who had greeted him, but his scowl was soon firmly back in place and he strode on without acknowledging his younger cousin.

Frodo shook his head and continued on his way. He supposed some hobbits never changed; Bolo looked just as surly and ill-tempered as ever. He certainly wouldn't have the opportunity to tie Frodo up and leave him in the hayloft this time around, however. Frodo was four years older now, and a good deal harder to intimidate.

Frodo glanced back once at Bolo's retreating form and then quickened his pace; he still had a few minutes before supper and there was something he wanted to do.

"Very good, lass," Poppy praised. "Now set the butter out and you can ring the bell for supper." Poppy smiled as the mousy little maid hurried away. The roasts were warming and ready to be eaten, so her part of the supper preparations was complete.

A footstep in the doorway caught Poppy's attention, and then she heard a "Good evening, Miss Poppy."

The cook turned quickly. "Why, Frodo Baggins!" she exclaimed in delight when she realized the identity of her visitor, and, momentarily forgetting herself, darted forward to embrace the startled tween.  Frodo didn't seem to know what to do at first, but then he awkwardly hugged her back.

Poppy abruptly recalled whom she was hugging and pulled away, wondering if Frodo was upset by her overstepping—she'd been so pleased to see him, she hadn't even thought—but one look at his puzzled face drove that thought from her mind.

"How are ye, Mr. Frodo?" Poppy asked, smiling at him a little sadly. Of course Frodo was not accustomed to being hugged; he had been without his mother and father for fifteen years now. Esmeralda and Saradoc had always meant well, but they had never had much time for their orphaned cousin. And of course, Bilbo was a silly old bachelor and probably had no idea that children needed daily hugs.

"I'm well, thank you," Frodo said. "And you?"

"Oh, pretty fair, pretty fair," she replied, eyeing him critically. "You've grown some since I saw you last, lad!"

"Have I?" asked Frodo, looking pleased.

"Aye," Poppy said with a wink. "In height if not in breadth. But we'll stuff you to the gills while you're here and soon put you right."

Frodo laughed out loud, and the sound gladdened Poppy's heart. He still had his naturally fair complexion, but there were roses in his cheeks and his blue eyes sparkled with lively humour. Poppy nodded to herself in satisfaction. She had known that mad old adventurer would do the boy good.

38. Swimming

March 23, 1395

Frodo enjoyed the first few days of his visit far more than he had expected to. Most of his time was spent with Merry and Pippin; he entertained his little cousins with stories and games for hours at a time, much to their mothers' delight. Eglantine Took had even taken Frodo aside the day before and told him that while his willingness to look after Pippin was most welcome, she didn't want him to feel he was under any obligation.

But Frodo truly did not resent the added responsibility. He delighted in playing with little Pippin, who had proven to be a curious and thoughtful child now that the shyness had mostly worn off. Bilbo had said he detected a hint of hero worship in fact, and it was true Pippin had taken to following Frodo wherever he went, thumb in mouth and watching him with adoring green eyes, much to Frodo's consternation and Bilbo's hearty amusement. Merry, on the other hand, was bold and adventurous, and took every opportunity to coax his somewhat bookish older cousin out of his shell.

Now, as when Frodo himself had lived at Brandy Hall, most of the children his or Merry's age were lasses. There were a few lads even younger than Pippin, and then others older than Frodo, many in their thirties like Bolo.

So it seemed natural to Frodo, Merry, and Pippin, and indeed to their associated parents or guardians, that the three lads stick together as much as possible.

Bilbo spent time with Frodo and the other children mainly in the evenings. The old hobbit had asked Frodo the previous day if he would like to go on a day-long excursion while they were in Buckland. The idea had sounded intriguing, but Frodo had been shocked to find out that Bilbo's desired destination was the hole where Frodo had lived with his parents until he was twelve.

That was the last place Frodo wanted to go. He had shuddered at the thought at answered Bilbo evasively. Somewhere along the line, Bilbo had seized on the idea that Frodo ought to learn more about his parents and come to terms with his tragic loss early in life. Frodo thought this was a terrible idea, but every so often, Bilbo would make some not-terribly-subtle attempt to engage Frodo on the topic. On this particular occasion, as on others, Frodo had politely declined but promised to think on it. He didn't want to hurt the old hobbit's feelings, after all.

But Frodo did not want to learn more about his parents. More to the point, he did not want to learn more about the circumstances of their deaths. And he certainly did not want to dwell on what he had lost and could never have again.

Frodo supposed Bilbo had thought the visit to Buckland, where Frodo had been raised, would be an excellent opportunity to 'deal with the past' as he sometimes put it. That very possibility had terrified Frodo, but he was glad he’d come anyway, to visit Merry and Pippin if nothing else.

Frodo saw Merry turn around to look at him, and he tried to shake off his strange mood.

"Come on, Frodo!" Merry exclaimed. "Goodness, I didn't know tweenagers were so slow! Are your old bones sore today, cousin?"

Frodo laughed and broke into a run, chasing Merry up the hill. "Stand still and say that again!" he shouted.

Merry giggled and danced out of reach, but Frodo managed to get close enough to tickle him and then the battle was lost.

"I'll teach you some respect for your elders, Meriadoc!" Frodo threatened.

Merry collapsed on the grass, laughing hysterically between gasps for air. Frodo continued to tickle him mercilessly until Pippin caught up and stopped beside them, peering down at Merry with interest.

"Can I try, Frodo?" Pippin asked eagerly.

Merry started to laugh again even though no one was touching him, but Frodo managed to keep his countenance in the face of Pippin's comically earnest expression.

"Of course, Pippin," Frodo said generously, and motioned the little boy to go ahead.

"Like this, Frodo?" Pippin started to scratch at Merry's ribs in an imitation of what he had seen Frodo doing.

"Do it lighter, Pippin-lad," Frodo corrected. "Merry's laughing but it's only because he thinks you're funny, and we can't have that!"

Soon they had Pippin tickling like an expert, but Merry could only stand so much. The afternoon was unusually warm and Merry couldn't bear to lie there with the bright sun beating down on him. He rolled himself down a gentle incline and came to rest in the shade of a tree on the far side of the hill, overlooking the Brandywine.

"Oh, let's go swimming, Frodo!" Merry exclaimed, looking down at the cool river longingly.

Frodo sat up, startled by the suggestion. He and Pippin joined Merry in the shade and Frodo looked down at the river. He could see a few children already in the water, enjoying the warm weather.

Frodo swallowed before answering. He hadn't swum at all since moving to Hobbiton, and he had always avoided the Brandywine while living at Brandy Hall. Not that that had been difficult; the other children had rarely invited him.

"Can you swim, Frodo?" Merry pressed.

"Yes—" Of course he could swim. No child grew up in the vicinity of Buckland without learning. Their comfort with the water was one of the reasons other hobbits considered Bucklanders odd.

Frodo stared at the river uncomfortably.

July 1378

Drogo reached around Primula and grabbed a freshly washed carrot.

"Stop that!" Primula scolded, slapping her husband's hand away.

Drogo merely snatched another carrot with his other hand and kissed is wife quickly on the cheek.

Primula sighed in exasperation and bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Let's see you make jokes when you have a stew with no carrots put before you at supper," she finally retorted, and turned back to her chopping.

"Oh, nonsense, Prim," Drogo replied. "You have another ten here at least! We'll never miss these two little ones." And with that, Drogo pulled his upper lip away from his teeth and placed both carrots against his gums, making a dreadful face at Primula.

"My, what long teeth you have, my dear," Primula commented, her azure eyes dancing.

A childish giggle erupted from somewhere near Primula's feet, and she looked down in surprise. "Frodo, darling, why are you always underfoot?" she asked rhetorically, stooping to lift the young child into her arms.

"I'm hungry, Mama," Frodo said, resting his dark curly head on Primula's shoulder.

"Well, let's hope your father isn't planning to let those carrots go to waste," she said, kissing Frodo's plump cheek and making him giggle again.

Drogo quickly removed the carrots from his mouth as they started to slip. "I wouldn't dream of it, my dear," he proclaimed, taking an enormous bite out of each one. He then held them out to his small son. Frodo eagerly took as big a bite as he could manage from each carrot, without letting go of his mother's neck.

Now there was only one bite of each carrot remaining, and Drogo fed both of these to Primula.

"Now then," Primula said. "You'd better take Frodo outside for a spell. I'll never get this supper started with you two lurking underfoot!"

Drogo and Frodo turned to regard her with identically innocent expressions.

"Away with you!" Primula exclaimed, rolling her eyes. She set Frodo down and swatted at her husband with a handy cloth.

"Very well, my dear," Drogo said gallantly, as though he had not just been swatted on the rear end with a dish towel. "Come along, Frodo-lad, we'll go check on the boat and make certain it's still there!"

"Yes, Papa!" Frodo said eagerly. He followed his father out the door, automatically clasping the two fingers Drogo extended.

"Frodo, bring your Papa back here in an hour, no later," Primula called after them.

"Yes, Mama!" Frodo giggled. That was silly, of course; Papa would keep track of the time. Frodo was notoriously terrible at such things. He skipped along happily beside his father; he liked looking at the boat. Drogo had been working on it as long as he could remember, which, admittedly, wasn't very long.

They walked down from their isolated hole on the outskirts of Crickhollow to the water's edge. They lived far from the main road, but quite close to the river which Primula had loved from childhood. The Brandywine ran slow and broad here, and little pools branched off here and there that hardly moved at all. There was a shallow one very close to where their boat was beached, in fact. Frodo was allowed to wade in up to his knees and try to catch frogs.

"There she is, Frodo-lad," Drogo said as they came up to the boat.

Frodo gazed at the vessel appreciatively. Drogo was still working on the inside parts, but the outside was finished now. The hull had been painted a cheerful yellow the previous spring.

"How come boats are always lasses, Papa?" Frodo asked, tugging on Drogo's fingers.

Drogo smiled, and his brown eyes sparkled as they always did when he was happy. "Because lasses are beautiful and we love them," he said finally, as though that ought to be enough explanation to suit anybody.

"Oh." Frodo stared at the letters on the side near him. He couldn't read yet, but he knew they spelled 'Primula,' his mother's name.

"Can I go wading?" Frodo asked after running his small hands over the paintwork for awhile. He gazed longingly at his favourite frog-catching pond, for the day was uncomfortably warm and Frodo's feet were so dreadfully hot on the sandy riverbed.

Drogo looked down at the little hobbit beside him, and smiled again. "Whyever not?" he said cheerfully, reaching over to ruffle Frodo's dark curls, so like his mother's. "We've lots of time yet."

Frodo ran over to the big rock among the reeds and sat down to roll up his trouser legs.

Drogo settled beside him and watched his son's industrious efforts with quiet amusement. "How old are you, Frodo-lad?" he asked when the child had one side rolled up to his satisfaction and was beginning on the other.

"Nine, Papa," Frodo said, looking up at his father. Drogo took a peculiar enjoyment in asking questions to which he already knew the answer.

"Nine!" exclaimed Drogo in mock surprise. "So old already? And here I thought you were only six!"

"I am not six," Frodo huffed indignantly. He finished with the other trouser leg and stood up.

Drogo threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, my dear Frodo, you are such a funny little thing. How I look forward to seeing what sort of hobbit you'll grow to become!"

Frodo glanced up at his father. That didn't make sense at all, but Frodo was used to adults saying things that didn't make sense. He shrugged it off and stepped into the water, enjoying the feel of the soft, cool river mud between his toes.

Frodo soon forgot about his father watching him from the big rock. He crept around quietly, trying to disturb the water around his ankles as little as possible so he would have a chance of sneaking up on an unsuspecting frog.

Soon he spied one, croaking innocently on a log a few yards away. His hands itched to catch it and touch that strange-feeling skin, and put that perfectly-formed little green creature into his pocket and show it to Mama. Frodo moved towards it, as stealthy as the elves in the stories Uncle Bilbo liked to tell him.

Closer now; Frodo was only a few feet away. The water was up to his knees, much to Frodo's annoyance. He lifted up on his tiptoes a little to keep his trousers dry.

Almost there; now the water was lapping at the bottoms of his trousers. Frodo frowned. He knew he was only allowed up to his knees, but he wanted to catch that frog! The child took another step, rising up further on his toes to keep the surface of the water at his knees.

"Frodo-lad, you're in too far!" Drogo called just then. "Come on back a ways, son!"

"Aww," Frodo said in disappointment. The frog had been startled by his father's voice and was nowhere to be seen. "You scared him off, Papa!" he protested, starting to turn around.

Drogo only laughed, unaffected by the small boy's reproach. "I'd rather lose a frog than risk your mother's wrath should you get your clothes wet, lad."

"All right," Frodo sighed in resignation. He tried to turn back to his father and still keep his trousers out of the water, but staying on his toes made him lose his balance. With a yelp of dismay, Frodo tumbled forward into the water. He cried out just as his face broke the surface and ended up struggling to get back on his feet, crying at the stinging feeling of water in his nose.

Before Frodo knew what was happening, he was being hauled swiftly to his feet by two large hands under his arms.

"Frodo-lad, are you hurt?" Drogo was peering into his face with concern.

Frodo coughed and cried some more. He didn't like the water in his nose and throat at all. Drogo patted him on the back and steered him back toward shallow water. Frodo noticed with surprise that when not standing on his toes, the water here came almost to his hips.

Drogo's trousers were soaked; he had crossed over to Frodo in three quick strides as soon as he saw the child start to lose his balance. Frodo felt bad that his father had gone into the water without rolling up his trousers; now Mama would be annoyed with both of them.

"Just sit down and rest for a minute, son," Drogo said, lifting him onto the large rock. "You'll feel better in a minute. Never had water up your nose before, eh?"

Frodo shook his head miserably.

"All right, all right," Drogo said, rubbing Frodo's back soothingly. "Tell you what. We still have over half an hour; let's get you out of those wet clothes. We'll lay them here on the rock and I'll bet they'll be dry as toast by supper time."

Frodo sniffled and nodded, allowing his father to help him out of his sodden trousers and shirt. Drogo removed his own wet trousers as well, and they sat down on the ground in the patchy shade of a willow tree; Drogo in his underclothes and Frodo naked.

They sat in companionable silence for awhile, and Frodo's frightening experience in the pond started to fade from his thoughts. He could hear the babbling of the Brandywine nearby, and a breeze rustled the leaves over his head gently, as well as the surface of the pond reflecting the cloudless blue sky.

"Have I ever promised to teach you to swim, Frodo-lad?" Drogo asked presently.

"Ye-es," Frodo replied. There was Papa's strange habit of asking things he already knew. His father liked to pretend to be surprised by Frodo's answers, but Frodo was far too clever to fall for his father's jokes anymore and always saw right through the jest. "You said you'd teach me next summer, Papa," he said pointedly.

"I did?" Drogo exclaimed. "Are you certain? Because I could have sworn I said I wouldn't teach you till you were at least thirty-three years old!"

Frodo laughed in spite of himself. He hadn't even flinched at the suggestion that Drogo would make him wait that long. He had his father all figured out. Frodo smirked to himself, feeling pleased, but he stopped abruptly at his father's next words.

"How would you like to try right now, son?" Drogo asked softly, his voice no longer jesting.

Frodo was first shocked by the suggestion, then delighted. He wanted to swim like Mama and Papa, and the older boys at Brandy Hall that he sometimes saw when he visited. But Frodo hesitated; he didn't want his head to go under the water again.

"Will—will my head get wet, Papa?" Frodo asked hesitantly.

"The water is nothing to fear, Frodo-lad, not if you know how to be safe and comfortable in it," Drogo said seriously. "And I want you to be safe. I learned when I was much older than you, you know, but I didn't grow up near the river."

Frodo nodded thoughtfully. Mama had told him once that Papa used to be a terrible swimmer, but he'd become more skilled in order to impress her, a Brandybuck with river water in her veins. Frodo hadn't understood, but the remark had made Papa laugh.

"Tell you what, let's get back in there and we'll do as much as you're comfortable with," Drogo said, seeing Frodo's continued uncertainty.

"You won't let me fall in again, will you?" Frodo asked, remembering that awful stinging feeling in his nose.

"I'll never let you fall in, Frodo, not while I still have life in my body," Drogo said seriously. "That I promise you." And Frodo believed him.

Soon they were both standing in a deeper part of the pond; the water came up to Frodo's chest and Drogo's trailing shirttails. Drogo first wanted Frodo to close his eyes, pinch his nose closed, and dunk his face in the water. Frodo was frightened, so Drogo did it first. He put his face down and blew bubbles furiously until Frodo laughed.

Then Frodo tried it. He nearly panicked when he felt the water flow across his closed eyes and nose, but his father's strong hands on his shoulders reassured him, and the urge to inhale passed. The water felt cool and tingly on his face; different from bathwater. Frodo blew bubbles too, and they tickled his pointed ears when they popped on the surface of the pond. When he ran out of bubbles to blow, he lifted his face and Drogo wiped his eyes gently with the cuff of his shirt.

"How was that, lad?" Drogo asked quietly.

Frodo considered. "That was all right," he said.

"Now try going straight down until your ears are under," Drogo said.

"All right, Papa," Frodo said after a moment. He got water in his ears all the time when Mama bathed him, so he didn't think this would hurt. "Will you hold me up?" he asked just in case.

"Of course," Drogo said, smiling, and adjusted his hands so they were supporting Frodo under the arms.

Frodo bent his knees and lowered himself in the water. First his chin was under, then his mouth. He tipped his head back so his nose would stay out, and Drogo slipped his hands behind Frodo's back a little, so Frodo didn't have to hold himself up. The water was warm around his body, but cooler than the hot air. It tingled pleasantly on his scalp as it soaked through his hair. Frodo paused before continuing; he had to remind himself to breathe trough his nose.

Finally his ears were under, and Frodo's eyes widened in surprise. He hadn't expected to be able to hear underwater, but all sorts of sounds were reaching his ears. He could hear the slow movement of the water as it entered through the inlet and emptied back into the Brandywine. He could hear the splashing of something small over by the log. His frog, perhaps? And he could hear Drogo's hands as he readjusted their positions on Frodo's back. Everything sounded so quiet; muffled and peaceful somehow. Frodo felt very relaxed, looking up at his father's smiling face and watching his chestnut-coloured hair moving in the slight breeze.

Drogo eventually lifted him up. "Want to try your whole head, Frodo-lad?" he asked.

"My whole head?" Frodo repeated dubiously. He didn't like the sound of that at all, and was about to tell his father he was too frightened. But Drogo's strong hands were still firmly holding Frodo's upper arms, and Frodo trusted him completely.

Frodo nodded finally, and Drogo smiled widely. "Whenever you're ready, lad," he said. "Don't forget to pinch your nose."

Frodo didn't need to ask this time if Drogo would hold on. Slowly he sank down again, took a deep breath and pinched his nose shut. His chin, mouth, and ears went under, and then Frodo leaned back in his father's arms. His nose was underwater, and then his eyes. He had forgotten to close his eyes! But it was all right; the water didn't hurt. Frodo looked up at his father in wonder, through a thin layer of clear water. He saw Drogo's face register surprise when he realized Frodo's eyes were still open, then he smiled. Frodo smiled too.

Everything looked different through water; his whole head was under now, and the whole world was water. Papa, the trees, and even the sky looked like they were rippling. He could feel currents in the water as Drogo's feet shifted on the pond's bottom. Frodo lowered himself a little more. He slowly blew bubbles out his mouth and watched them float up and break the surface just over his face.

When he shifted slightly to straighten up, Drogo immediately lifted him into a standing position. Frodo gasped as he broke the surface. He blinked water from his eyes and tried to readjust to the world of dry air and hot sun.

He looked at Drogo, eyes shining. "I want to try it again, Papa!" he said.

Drogo laughed in delight. "Of course you do, son—you have Brandybuck blood in your veins!"

This time Frodo went face down, with Drogo holding him around the chest and helping him lean forward. Frodo stared in fascination at his legs, which were tinted green and curiously foreshortened under the water. He saw plants swaying gently in the currents, just like plants on land swayed in the breeze. It was another world entirely under here. Frodo was startled and delighted when a school of tiny fish burst from beneath a tangle of grasses and went darting along the sandy pond bottom.

Frodo soon ran out of breath and stood up. He and Drogo regarded each other with shared delight. Frodo knew he would have to do this again, and eventually his feet would leave the bottom and Papa would teach him to kick his legs and move through the water like one of those fish, like the older Brandybuck children down at Brandy Hall.

They heard a throat being cleared and turned around. Primula was standing beside the big rock where their clothes were spread out to dry.

"You're late," she said as they sloshed through the water towards her, but she was smiling, and Frodo knew she wasn't upset. She had a scratchy green towel with her, and she had kissed Frodo and wrapped him in it before the air could chill his wet skin.

"He's a natural, Prim," Drogo told her, beaming as he started to gather up their clothes from the rock.

Primula just smiled radiantly back at her husband, and their hands touched lightly.

Frodo swallowed thickly and looked away from the river. He had loved being in the water from that day forward, and had loved swimming more and more as his parents taught him the basics over the course of that summer and the next one. He had become fairly skilled for a child his age by the spring of 1380.

Frodo looked at Merry and Pippin, both watching him uncertainly. He had been quiet for far too long, he realized. He knew Merry looked up to him and he hated the thought of the younger lad finding out what a coward his admired cousin really was, but he knew he could not go swimming. Not now, perhaps not ever. Frodo was casting about for some excuse when his eyes fell on Pippin.

"Merry, is Pippin allowed in the water yet?" Frodo asked severely, turning his attention back to Merry.

Merry shook his head, dismayed. "I forgot," he said. "Pippin's too young."

"I have another idea," Frodo said, hoping he didn't sound too relieved. He knew Merry wouldn't suggest taking Pippin back to his mother and going by themselves. "How about we visit the stables? A ride on Mabelle might be nice."

This plan was met with approval, especially by Pippin, who loved the ponies. They set off for the stables, with Frodo privately hoping the weather wouldn't be warm enough for swimming again for the duration of his visit.

39. Bitter Reflections

March 28, 1395

Fortunately for Frodo, the weather had cooled by the following day and no one suggested swimming again. In any case, preparations for Merry's birthday party began in earnest and the birthday-hobbit found himself with less and less free time to spend with Frodo. The elder cousin still watched Pippin sometimes, but more often he was left to amuse himself.

Ordinarily Frodo liked to spend time alone, but here at Brandy Hall he could not seem to find comfort in solitude as he usually did. Perhaps it was his surroundings; Frodo couldn't seem to keep the memories at bay here. He was not resentful by nature, but the constant reminders of the eleven years Frodo had lived at Brandy Hall filled him with discontent. It was just the same as when he had lived here, only now he was older and more aware.

Now he noticed how crowded the extensive warren under Buck Hill was. He noticed how many hobbits were around him at any given moment, but how few spoke to him or even looked at him, unless it was to shout at him for some offence, real or imagined. Now that Frodo wasn't with Merry and Pippin most of the time, he noticed how often one of his relatives would look right through the space he was standing in and not appear to notice him. Frodo knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help feeling bitter that he had been made to live like this for all those years before Bilbo had adopted him.

Even worse than feeling invisible, however, were the other memories and reminders. Reminders of Drogo and Primula. Frodo had been fairly oblivious four years ago, but now the meaning of the sordid rumours still heard occasionally around the Hall was all too clear.

And Frodo could say nothing, even if the gossipmongers had dared to address him directly. For he did not know what caused his parents to drown. No one did. In truth, although he might have been the only witness, Frodo didn't remember that day at all. None of the hobbits who had known Drogo and Primula well had believed a word of them drowning each other, but Frodo had no proof, nothing with which to refute the rumours.

And then there was Bilbo. The old hobbit seemed unfazed, but Frodo hated the thoughtless things that were sometimes said about old Mad Baggins. Several Brandybuck relations had already asked him if Bilbo had risked Frodo's life on any harebrained adventures yet; Frodo might have found this an amusing question, but none had appeared to be joking.

Just as irritating were those Frodo met occasionally who insinuated that he was terribly inconsiderate for burdening first Saradoc and Esmeralda and then Bilbo with his care.

That very morning, his elderly cousin Zinnia Brandybuck, after seeing how fondly Bilbo had greeted Frodo at first breakfast, felt it her duty to take Frodo aside before elevenses and sternly admonish him to be properly grateful for everything Bilbo was doing for him.

Frodo tried not to take offence, and managed stiffly to assure the old lady that he most certainly was grateful, but her next words had left him speechless.

"Good!" said Zinnia, nodding sternly. "I wish only to be sure you understand your position, young Frodo. Children whose parents were inconsiderate enough to die ought never to forget they have been left to burden their hard-working relations and depend on their charity."

Frodo could only stare.

"Why, it still surprises me that Saradoc and Esmeralda didn't try to get rid of you years earlier!" the old lady sniffed as she turned to walk away.

Now it was mid-afternoon, and Frodo was far from Brandy Hall. He had gone for a walk after luncheon, not caring where to.

Zinnia's words had made him angry. Not because he thought they were true; Bilbo would indeed still be a carefree adventurer if not for him, but Frodo had understood for a long time that Bilbo loved him as a father would and did not consider him a burden.

No, what angered Frodo and filled him with bitterness was that he had to consider these matters at all. Looking around Brandy Hall, he saw nothing but children secure in their position in life with loving parents and nobody telling them they were some sort of unwanted mathom to be passed around. Why were so many of his kinfolk so small-minded and petty? It wasn't fair.

Frodo kicked a small rock in the path as he walked. He didn't like feeling angry, especially not at his parents for leaving him in this awkward position. He also didn't like feeling guilty. Bilbo had already done so much for him; it would be unforgivable of Frodo to ever tell the old hobbit how much he wished he had his real parents back, even now.

Frodo walked awhile longer, immersed in his unpleasant thoughts. He passed farms and fields and quaint isolated hobbit holes, for he was far from Brandy Hall now, and gradually his tangled thoughts began to unsnarl themselves.

The tweenager sighed and sat down to rest by the side of the deserted road. He felt drained, and longed for the peace and quiet of Bag End. He could comfort himself with the thought that Merry's party was only six days away, at least. After that, Bilbo would be ready to go back to Hobbiton, and Frodo would be all too eager to get away from here.

Frodo leaned back on his elbows and looked around, wondering why this part of the road seemed familiar. He had wandered further than he'd meant to. He was probably somewhere in the vicinity of Newbury or Crickhollow.

The tween sat up suddenly, realizing why the area must seem familiar: His parents' hole had been near Crickhollow. Frodo sucked in a breath, trying to decide what to do. Bilbo had suggested a visit to this very place, and Frodo had been dead set against it.

But now, in the cool, clear spring air, with grasses rustling and sunshine warming his dark curls, a very Baggins-like curiosity warred with Frodo's feeling of dread.

He wasn't even sure he could find the hole again—he hadn't been back there in fifteen years. His Brandybuck relations had never brought it up; most hobbits would consider such a visit more than a little morbid. Frodo didn't even know if anyone was living there now.

He got to his feet, still uncertain. Did he really want to dredge up old memories and make himself miss his parents even more? Did he really want to see what had become of the hole where he had once had a happy, carefree childhood?

Apparently he did; Frodo's feet were already moving.

He continued down the road a ways then turned onto an even more familiar lane. At first he could hear nothing but the wind in the trees, and the occasional snatch of birdsong, but gradually a distant roaring began to increase in volume. Before long, the lane took Frodo within sight of the Brandywine, but by then he had passed the broad part of the river and the noisy rapids, so he saw only a quietly babbling stream. Frodo could recall his parents explaining they lived ‘near Crickhollow’ to visitors not from Buckland, but in fact the hole was further north, and closer to the river than to any village.

Frodo followed the Brandywine until he reached a very well-remembered pond. The tween stood gazing at it a moment. It looked just the same, but framed now by an overgrowth of weeds. A lump formed in his throat, and Frodo turned his gaze to the smial's door, knowing already that he would find it silent and long-abandoned. Most hobbits were far too sociable to consider living this far from town, in such an out-of-the-way location. Of course no one else would have moved in.

The tweenager looked contemplatively at the round blue door. The paint was chipped and fading, of course, but he recognized it instantly. Something told him now was the time to leave, but a desire for closeness with his long-absent parents drove him forward.

Frodo slowly pushed the door open, ignoring the squeaking hinge. Primula's kin had removed all their belongings soon after the accident, of course, and now the front room was dark and silent and dusty, and small in its emptiness.

He opened the door a little further and stood on the threshold. His chest tightened. He could not go inside—the wound was suddenly fresh and open and raw.

Frodo blinked and saw that room as it once was—full of light and knickknacks and toys on the floor—but the dread inside him was growing, and Frodo realized in sudden horror what day he was remembering.

April 2, 1380

"Make haste, my dear," Primula said shortly.

"Primula, darling, I said I was sorry!" Drogo replied in exasperation, setting down the tater he'd been peeling for an impromptu supper.

"You had plenty of time to hire the pony and wagon, Drogo," Primula snapped. "There's really no excuse I can give my family!"

"I haven't made any excuses," Drogo protested. "All I can offer is an alternative.”

Primula stood slowly from where she had been unbuttoning Frodo's best waistcoat. "We haven’t the time to walk. You're speaking of the boat," she said severely. She hurried Frodo into his room and shut the door so he wouldn't hear the argument, but the eleven-year-old pressed his eye to the knothole no one else knew about.

"If we leave right now, we'll be at Brandy Hall in plenty of time for supper," Drogo persisted.

Primula pursed her lips angrily. "Oh no, my dear. After all those storms we've been having, the river will be impassable with debris."

"We don't know that," Drogo argued, raising his voice a little. "We may get close enough to have a much shorter walk at least. How much do you want to make this visit, Primula?" Drogo folded his arms and stared his wife down. "I'm sure you know I'd be just as happy staying here and not giving your kinfolk yet another chance to disapprove of me!"

Primula threw her hands up in exasperation. "Fine!" she exclaimed. "We'll take the boat. Come, Frodo, let's get your waistcoat back on."

Little Frodo obediently came out of his room and stretched his arms toward his mother. Primula soon had him dressed again for the family visit.

They went outside and Drogo drew the sheet off their little yellow boat.

Frodo shivered. The day was overcast and the river was high, and he hated it when his parents fought. Perhaps it seemed all the worse for it happened so rarely.

Drogo lifted his son into the boat, but Primula ignored his proffered hand and climbed in without assistance. Drogo sighed and cast off.

As they began to move with the current, Drogo took the tiller. The strong current sped the little boat along quickly, but there was no impassable debris in sight, so Primula's fears proved unfounded.

Frodo leaned over to watch the muddy water eddying round the prow. When he looked up he found Drogo smiling at him slightly.

"Don't get seasick, do you, Frodo-lad?" he asked with a wink.

"No, Papa," Frodo replied, and Primula smiled too, reluctantly it seemed, and reached out to pull him into her lap—

Frodo stepped back abruptly, gasping, and tripped on the front step. He let out a choked sob as he stumbled. He had to get away from here. His chest felt too tight to breathe, and cold sweat trickled down his back.

Frodo scrambled to his feet and ran away as fast as his legs would carry him. It was early evening now and the sky was darkening, but Frodo ran and ran.

It had been a mistake to visit the hole. He never should have listened to Bilbo; now he had to bear the terrible knowledge that his parents had been fighting that day.

She pushed him in, and he pulled her in after.

Half a dozen versions of that accursed story echoed in Frodo's head. It couldn't be true. But he had been so young... had he really known his parents well enough to be absolutely certain? Could those vicious rumours be true? No, it was ridiculous. But even so, why did his final memories of his parents have to be of arguments and hurt feelings? And... why hadn't Frodo drowned that day as well? He had been in the boat; he was a witness to whatever had happened, he must be. Somewhere inside him was the knowledge of what had actually happened, but Frodo did not want to know any more. He should never have come.

March 31, 1395, four o'clock in the morning

Poppy stretched and tied on her apron. She had come to work early this morning to make a start on some of the pastries for Master Merry's birthday.

It was still dark out so Poppy lit a lantern and brought it into the kitchen.

"Mr. Frodo!" she exclaimed in surprise. The young gentlehobbit was sitting at the table where Poppy customarily worked, all alone in the dark kitchen.

"Hullo, Miss Poppy," Frodo said, a smile ghosting briefly across his face.

Poppy set the lantern on the table and sat down beside the tweenager. "Now what are ye doing, sitting here in the dark, lad?" she asked.

"Just thinking," Frodo said quietly.

Poppy watched him for a moment. He definitely looked paler than when she had last seen him, although that might have been an effect of the flickering lantern light. He hadn't come to visit her in three days, but she'd had glimpses of him in the dining hall and he had looked lively enough. But now it seemed his guard was down, and Poppy couldn't help but think something dreadful had happened.

"Mr. Frodo, whatever is the matter?" Poppy asked, her kind heart not allowing her to remain silent.

"N-nothing!" Frodo seemed startled by her question. "Please. Tell me how you've been, Miss Poppy."

Poppy was silent for a moment. Well, if distraction was what the lad wanted, she would oblige him.

So she spoke of the topic foremost in her mind these days: Alar Goodchild. She told Frodo how they had met one day in the market and begun courting. She touched only briefly on how she knew Alar meant to marry her if only they could manage to discuss it the proper way, for some anxieties were too personal. Such a thing should be done with her family there, but they lived in Harbottle and could seldom afford to visit.

"Goodchild?" Frodo muttered to himself. "I know Bell Gamgee in Hobbiton, who was born Goodchild."

This news interested Poppy, of course, for there were not many Goodchilds here in Buckland and so she did not know much about Alar's kin. "Is that so, Mr. Frodo?" she said. "I believe Alar has a cousin by that name. How do ye find the Goodchilds, if I may ask?"

Frodo smiled at her warmly. "I'm only acquainted with the one," he said, "but Mrs. Gamgee is one of the best hobbits I know. She is married to Uncle Bilbo's gardener."

Poppy was very pleased to hear this; that a family such as the Bagginses thought well of one of Alar's relations further supported her belief that Alar was an excellent fellow.

Frodo seemed interested in hearing more, so Poppy, happy that she was distracting him, continued to speak of her hopes for the future. She hoped the lad didn't pick up on the despair she felt at wondering what would happen if she missed this chance. She was past fifty now, and her prospects were not good. She thought Alar would make a wonderful father, after seeing him play with the young children of her friend, and she hoped she would be a good mother.

Frodo had been listening attentively but Poppy suddenly realized he was no longer relaxed.

"Oh, Mr. Frodo, have I said something wrong?" Poppy exclaimed, noticing that the boy's knuckles were white and his back stiff with tension.

"No—no," Frodo said quickly, although his voice sounded choked. "I am quite delighted for you. I feel sure you will be a wonderful mother." The tweenager excused himself and got up to leave the kitchen, but not before Poppy caught the anguished look in his blue eyes.

"Frodo, wait!" she called after him, belatedly realizing that in her distress she had forgotten to call him 'mister'. But Frodo had already left the kitchen, and Poppy sat down again, wondering. Something was definitely bothering the lad, and her thoughtless prattle had struck a nerve.

Poppy sighed sadly and went to the pantry to get the items she needed for the pastries. Hopefully he would come back tomorrow and she could apologize for upsetting him, even if he wouldn't tell her what was wrong.

40. Mushrooms

April 2, 1395

Frodo did not return to the kitchens the next day, and in fact Poppy did not see him again before Merry's party. No one saw much of Frodo, for he had been occupying himself away from Brandy Hall. He didn't want to face Poppy again after being so rude to her, and the happy, carefree play of the Brandybuck children depressed him. He refused to seek out Merry or Pippin; he couldn't bear the thought of revealing his foul mood to the younger cousins who looked up to him.

And Frodo had caught Bilbo looking at him with concern that morning; it was only a matter of time, of course, before Bilbo cornered him and started asking uncomfortable questions, but Frodo intended to put that off as long as possible. He had passed Bolo on the way out; the older tween had looked like he was leaving as well, but he was as surly and disinclined to communicate as ever, and Frodo thought it was just as well since he felt exactly the same.

Frodo had been roaming about aimlessly, seeking some diversion from his bitter thoughts, but he had crossed the river on the Bucklebury ferry and he supposed he was somewhere in the countryside to the south of Brandy Hall by now, in the Marish most likely. But peaceful fields, quiet trees, and the sight of hardworking farmers would do nothing to sooth his restless spirit today. He stared morosely as he passed another farm, then halted and looked more closely; he recognized this farm. It was the place from which good old Bolo had induced him to help steal mushrooms, years and years ago. Bamfurlong, Farmer Maggot's land.

The tween scowled. What pleasure could Bolo have derived from getting Frodo into trouble? And no one could possibly eat as many mushrooms as Bolo had stolen; that sour-hearted Brandybuck had done it just for spite. Especially the Maggot farm...

He had raided the pantries at Brandy Hall countless times, as had all the other lads, but Frodo had been one of the best. Such mischief was generally smiled at among the Brandybucks. It was even common for hobbit boys to sneak apples, mushrooms, and other snacks from unwary farmers, purely for sport.  But if the farmer took offence, as some did, and raised a fuss, the game was over and a scandal could erupt that would last for weeks; it was unseemly for children to steal from honest, hardworking farmers who didn't take it as a joke.

Maggot was one of these; everyone knew his prized crop of mushrooms was jealously guarded and off-limits. Merry had told him that the last time Maggot caught a Brandybuck making off with his mushrooms, the farmer had made such a stink with the Master of Brandy Hall that all the lads had been sternly admonished not to set foot on the Maggot property. That had been a few years ago, and apparently even Bolo had ceased his ill-advised raids.

Maggot's dogs had been terrifying. When Bolo had run off and left Frodo to be caught, he'd thought they meant to rip him to pieces. Frodo had been almost relieved when the farmer finally called the brutes off and dragged Frodo away to give him a taste of the strap, but then the old hobbit had set his dogs on Frodo. He knew now they were probably too well trained to actually harm him, but they had chased Frodo all the way back to the ferry, an experience he doubted he would forget soon.

Frodo swung a leg up to climb onto the high brick wall and stared intently at the distant farmhouse, with its thatched roof and surrounding farm-buildings almost hidden among the trees.

"Going to give it a try?" a voice from behind him asked dryly.

Frodo turned around awkwardly, almost losing his balance. There was none other than Bolo Brandybuck, wearing a natty blue jacket and his customary smirk.

"What are you doing here?" Frodo snapped, in no mood to be trifled with and angry that Bolo had managed to sneak up on him.

Bolo smiled slowly. "And you used to be such a quiet, polite little thing!" he murmured, eyes glinting with amusement.

Frodo answered him with a glare. "Were you following me?"

"Certainly not!" Bolo said, smirking. "If you must know, I was waiting for my father."

"I thought he was expected tomorrow," Frodo said suspiciously. He had overheard Pyrimidine talking shrilly about her beloved Gus only the evening before.

Bolo shrugged. "Sometimes he gets home earlier than expected," the older tween said carelessly. "Now you haven't answered my question. Are you going to try it?"

"Of course not!" Frodo said, forgetting to pretend he didn't know what Bolo meant.

Bolo just laughed and started to walk away. "You should; it can be quite a thrill. Make you forget all about your folks." He paused and looked back at Frodo. "Next time, say it like you mean it," the older tween added with a wink. "Maggot'll never believe you merely got lost unless you put a little more heat behind your denial."

Frodo looked away and waited till Bolo was down the road out of sight. His blood was boiling with anger. How dare Bolo talk about his parents! The reminder hurt cruelly; Bolo had no right. Bolo didn't know how it felt to have your parents leave you to grow up without them while everyone around you went on with their lives.

All of a sudden he wanted to give it a try, just to see if he could do it, perhaps... He pulled the other leg over the wall and dropped soundlessly into the dirt by a slope that led down to the edge of Maggot's corn field. This was madness. Foolish, inconsiderate, childish. Perfect, for Frodo was feeling all of those things. He wanted… well, he had no idea what he wanted. He wanted to forget himself. Forget who he was… He just wanted to stop thinking.

Frodo plunged in among the cornstalks. They were over his head, but he pushed on blindly, taking savage satisfaction in shoving the tall plants out of his way. As he approached the far edge of the field, he slowed to a pace at which he could move silently. He didn't want to alert those dogs, after all.

He could see the farmhouse; the lights were on, but he didn't see anybody in the immediate vicinity. The cabbages were directly in front of him, and Frodo ran through the open space as quickly and quietly as he could, being careful to keep his head down. Frodo paused, leaning against a tree to get his breath. All there was in the world right now were the mushrooms before him, the road which he could see past the corn, and his pulse pounding in his ears.

Frodo stooped and quickly filled his pockets with mushrooms, then ran back to the road just as stealthily as he had come. The relief was overwhelming when Frodo realized he had done it; he had done it, and not been caught.

April 4, 1395

The day of Merry's birthday dawned bright and clear. Frodo wasn't needed until teatime, when he would have to dress for the party, so he decided to cross the river and pay another visit to the Maggot farm. This would be the third time. After the exhilaration of his first success, Frodo had been emboldened to try again yesterday. It had gone off without a hitch once more, and Frodo had begun to look forward to his daily bit of excitement.

Much to Frodo's annoyance, he spotted Bolo loitering in the road again, as he had been yesterday and the day before.

"Waiting for your dad?" Frodo asked when Bolo turned to smirk at him.

"Of course." Bolo said with asperity. "Planning to call upon old Maggot again?"

"Yes," Frodo said just as tersely. He couldn't figure Bolo out; the older tween had been waiting for Gustaroc's return every day for three days now. Each time Frodo saw him, he expected angry threats and bullying from his cousin, as was typical of Bolo's behaviour four years ago. But other than snide remarks, Bolo had made no attempt to abuse Frodo. In fact, their meetings in the road had developed into a daily ritual of sorts.

It was strange, though, Bolo's behaviour. His attitude seemed to speak of defeat now, rather than anger. Frodo did not understand his cousin, and as he stared at Bolo's sullen expression he felt a momentary stirring of curiosity.

"Why did you used to steal from Maggot?" Frodo asked, against his better judgement.

Bolo blinked and stared at him. "Why do you do it?" the older tween countered, without changing expression.

Frodo was surprised at Bolo's civil response, and unprepared for a serious question. He supposed the decent thing was to give an honest answer. He thought for a moment.

"I do not want to face my life right now," Frodo said finally, hating how weak that sounded.

"Same for me, I guess," Bolo said with a shrug.

Frodo stared, uncomprehending. What was there to trouble Bolo? He had two living parents, he was spoiled rotten by his mother at least, and he never wanted for anything. Perhaps his bad disposition had finally gotten to him; Frodo shrugged it off and climbed Maggot's wall, scowling.

He ran into the corn field, clenching his eyes shut against the image of that bare, dusty front room that had stirred his memories. He ran faster, trying to shut his parents' angry voices out of his ears. He stopped before crossing into the open cabbage field just long enough to glance at the house and see that no one was standing in the open doorway.

Frodo charged through to the shelter of the trees and had his pockets half-filled with mushrooms before he realized how reckless he had just been. He crouched behind a tree and tried to get his breathing under control. All was still quiet; no one had noticed him.

Frodo took a strange pleasure in the knowledge that he was stealthy enough to get in and out without even the dogs noticing him. The thought that this was the quality that earned Bilbo a place in Gandalf's adventure with the dwarves all those years ago made Frodo smile slightly.

The smile faded as he looked down at the mushrooms in his hands. What would Bilbo think of what he was doing? Frodo continued to stare at the mushrooms as tears pricked his eyes. The delicious fungi were round and perfect, lying in his palms. Frodo could almost taste them melting in his mouth, although he hadn't yet eaten the ones he'd stolen earlier.

The sight disgusted him, and he threw the handful back to the ground in sudden horror. What was the matter with him? This was not your everyday, boys-will-be-boys mischief; he was nicking mushrooms from Farmer Maggot. If he were caught, no one would be laughing off the consequences. Aside from further souring the relations between the Brandybucks and the local farmers who sided with Maggot, Frodo's relatives would be furious with him. The punishment didn't bear thinking about; Rory would have to make an example of him to appease Maggot. But this wasn't what had made him throw down the mushrooms; he had been, and still was, bitter enough to risk it.

He had forgotten about Bilbo. His dear uncle might forgive him, but Bilbo was responsible for him now; Old Rory and the others would be even more furious with Bilbo, for failing to keep Frodo in line and allowing him to cause so much trouble. Frodo was bitterly angry that he was stuck with no parents, but it would only compound his shame to repay Bilbo's kindness so shabbily.

Frodo scowled, even angrier with himself now for being so careless in the cabbage field. He must not get caught, that was all there was to it. He would leave now and not come back; it wasn't a game anymore and he had been thoughtless and selfish to think it was.

The tweenager held very still and listened as he carefully scanned the farm buildings. He heard and saw no one. Frodo's throat was dry as he made his way swiftly across the cabbage field to the shelter of the corn; the reckless enjoyment was gone now.

As Frodo reached the highest point of the gentle slope, the road came into view beyond the corn. Something was there which hadn't been before: a wagon. He recognized Gustaroc sitting on the driver's bench, and Bolo was looking up at him from the ground.

He was too far to hear clearly, but some snatches of the conversation reached Frodo's sensitive ears in the still air.

"How was business, Dad?" he heard Bolo ask, almost tentatively.

"Fine," Gus answered shortly. "Stay out of trouble?"

"Yes."

"I'd best be on my way, I have matters to attend to before nightfall," Gus said, hardly glancing at Bolo.

"Can I come?"

"You know better than to ask that," Gus snapped impatiently. He cracked the reigns, urging the pony into a brisk walk.

As Frodo stood looking at Bolo, standing alone in the road, a loud bark sounded from behind him, followed shortly by more barking, and finally angry yelling.

Frodo could have smacked himself; he was standing just a few feet short of the corn, easily visible among the cabbages. Frodo's instincts screamed at him to run, but the three enormous dogs were almost upon him, and the approaching hobbit was near enough to recognize him. He was in deep trouble whether he ran or stood his ground, and he had already brought enough shame to his kin without trying to run away on top of it.

Frodo closed his eyes and clenched his fists at his sides, determined not to move as the dogs circled around him. He was reasonably certain they were well-trained enough not to hurt him…

Their snarls filled his ears, and Frodo felt hot breath on his ankle just before one of the beasts gripped his trouser leg and tore at it, growling.

"Here, Grip! Fang! Heel!" The angry voice was getting closer. "Heel, Wolf!"

Wolf released the torn hem of his trousers, and Frodo opened his eyes to find a broad thick-set hobbit with a round red face glaring at him furiously.

Farmer Maggot.

41. Consequences

"Do you know what problems your foolishness has caused with the farmers, boy?" Rorimac Brandybuck shouted over the noise of the party preparations going on outside. Merry's birthday festivities would begin in a matter of hours.

Frodo, wisely, said nothing, and continued to stare at the pattern of leaves formed in the rug on the floor of Uncle Rory's study. He knew full well he deserved this tirade, and more.

"Maggot's furious, of course," the master of Brandy Hall continued. "Why, the last time we offended that lot, we wound up paying nearly double for the turnip crop. Nearly double."

Frodo looked up briefly to see Rorimac still pacing angrily behind his desk. He did not know his mother's eldest brother well; he was reportedly tough on everyone, but not unjust. Most of the younger Brandybucks were a little afraid of him and his cantankerous ways, and Frodo had been no exception. One never knew where one stood with Old Rory.

"He's a sneaky old fox, that Maggot," Rorimac muttered, then, raising his voice again, "You lads, you just can't leave well enough alone, can you! You're lucky he didn't give you the thrashing of your life, you impudent pup."

Frodo returned his uncle's gaze. He happened to hold the same opinion; when Maggot had caught him trespassing years ago he hadn't hesitated to mete out an appropriate punishment. This time the farmer had blistered his ears with an angry diatribe, but had turned him over to Rory otherwise unscathed.

"That's not like Maggot, no indeed," Rory was shaking his head. "How the devil did you pacify him, boy?" He paused by the window, rolling a rheumy brown eye in Frodo's direction.

"I—I apologized," Frodo said awkwardly.

Rory stared. "Well, it's good to see you have some manners. I had begun to suppose Bilbo was letting you run wild over there."

"No, sir," Frodo lifted his chin slightly. Bilbo might not care for the opinions of others, but Frodo wouldn't be the cause of any additional slander if he could help it.

Rorimac sighed and slumped down in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Frodo swallowed nervously, realizing that the shouting was over and it was time for punishment to be handed down.

"You've disappointed me, Frodo," Rory said, looking up at the lad standing before him. "I might have expected this from one of the others, but not from you. I thought you were above purposely causing trouble for folks. The Maggots are a less powerful clan than are we Brandybucks, but it's our responsibility not to take advantage."

Frodo couldn't hold his gaze any longer and looked down, his face burning with shame.

Rorimac regarded the bent head measuringly. "You may think I'm holding you to a higher standard than many of the lads here, and you would be right. You always were different, boy," he said. "Special. Primula said so on the day you were born. If we've expected more from you, it's only because we know you have it in you."

Frodo stared hard at the carpet, his eyes burning.

"You think no one notices much of anything around here, but that ain't true," the old hobbit snapped irritably. "I lost her too; I know it's rough sometimes."

"Yes, sir," Frodo whispered. Rorimac had always seemed so stern and unapproachable; Frodo had never thought much about his parents' deaths affecting others... He was not the only one to have suffered a loss that day.

"But that's no excuse for shaming your family," Rory went on.

Frodo nodded miserably.

"In any case, you're Bilbo's responsibility now," Rory said, pausing in the doorway to look back at the pale tweenager. "He'll punish you as he sees fit, so run along and find him."

Frodo remained in the empty study a moment longer, feeling sick. He wished Rory had punished him; he hated the thought of putting Bilbo in this position. Bilbo always thought so highly of him... Frodo hadn't wanted him to find out about this at all.

The tween drew a deep breath to steady himself, then walked into the hall. His heart was heavy; what would Bilbo do? Frodo wasn't too old for a beating, but somehow he didn't think Bilbo could bear that. He didn't think he could bear that, but it would still be better than seeing Bilbo's disappointment; the old hobbit was as fond of mischief as anyone, but Frodo knew he had crossed the line between harmless fun and wilful defiance.

Frodo approached the door to their guest room and pushed it open slowly. Bilbo was standing by the window, gazing outside, but he turned to regard Frodo.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

"They tell me you've been stealing from a farmer," Bilbo said abruptly. He didn't look angry, but his voice was stern.

The tween nodded. He couldn't make himself speak.

"I can't imagine why you would do such a thing, Frodo," the old hobbit said, looking at Frodo as if he had never seen him before. "It isn't like you to be so thoughtless. You wouldn't be so disrespectful to Hamfast Gamgee, surely?"

"I'm sorry, Bilbo. Please forgive me." Frodo apologized miserably, after searching for something to say and coming up empty.

"Of course I forgive you," Bilbo sighed heavily, and gestured vaguely to Frodo's best clothes laid out on the bed. "You'd better get dressed for the party."

Frodo nodded wretchedly. He was getting off easy, but that didn't make him feel any better. He hated that he was the cause of Bilbo's sadness and disappointment. "Can we leave tomorrow, Uncle?" Frodo made himself ask. He didn't think he could stand another day here.

Bilbo's brown eyes regarded him sadly. "Certainly, if that's what you want."

Frodo looked at the floor uncomfortably. It would be such a pity to end this visit on a bad note. The blood rushed in his ears; the bitter memories and uncertainties would never leave him.

"Well, I'll leave you to get dressed," Bilbo said finally, stepping into the hall and reaching for the doorknob to give Frodo some privacy.

"I went to my parents' smial," Frodo said suddenly, not looking up.

Bilbo paused with the door half shut. After a moment he came back into the room and closed the door behind him.

Frodo took a deep breath and glanced at the old hobbit, the cousin who had done so much over the years.

Bilbo stood watching him, his expression unreadable.

Frodo's throat was dry, but he made himself speak. Bilbo deserved an explanation. "I didn't mean to go there..." he said haltingly. "It's just where I ended up."

Bilbo merely said "Tell me."

The words spilled out of Frodo, about how he didn't like to think of his parents, and how everything here reminded him of them in a way it hadn't when he lived here as a younger lad. How complicated everything was because of their absence. The unfairness of being stuck having others think he was imposing on Bilbo no matter the circumstances. The indignity of having to put up with folks saying the most dreadful things about how his parents died, and Frodo unable to refute any of it because he didn't remember.

"What do you mean, lad?" Bilbo interrupted at this point, his voice quiet.

"Do you know of the—the tale that is sometimes told?"

Bilbo nodded grimly.

"When I was there... When I was at their smial..." Why was this so difficult?

Bilbo waited silently until Frodo could make himself continue.

"I remembered parts of that day." Bilbo looked startled now, and Frodo hurried on before he could interrupt. "Not all of it, but enough to know I was on that boat. But I don't remember what happened, Bilbo. For all I know, those people could be right."

Frodo paused for breath. There, he'd said it. The statement hung briefly in the air like poison.

"Those people are not right, Frodo, and I don't care who remembers what," Bilbo said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Mama and Dad were fighting that day," Frodo admitted quietly.

Bilbo didn't seem to know what to say to that, and for a moment he could only stare at his young ward, his brown eyes pained. "Your parents weren't perfect, Frodo," the old hobbit said at last, his voice soft, "but they did love each other, and you, as much as anyone can love another. Never doubt that."

"I—I believe you," Frodo said, his eyes burning. "I just—I suppose the uncertainty will always trouble me. No one knows what really happened. I wish I knew, if only for myself." Frodo stared fixedly at the carpet under his feet and finished in a choked whisper, "I'd give anything to have them back, Bilbo. I'd give anything to have them back and to never have lived with you at all."

Frodo stopped, shocked at his rudeness. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the hurt, angry expression on Bilbo's face.

"Frodo."

Frodo didn't move. He was trembling with horror at what he'd just said; nothing in Middle Earth would induce him to look up at Bilbo at that moment.

"Frodo, look at me." Bilbo's voice was soft and compassionate.

Except that. Frodo thought perhaps he should beg Bilbo's forgiveness, but his voice refused to cooperate. He lifted his head, defiant and terrified at the same time.

"I'm sorry, Uncle," Frodo heard himself say desperately before Bilbo had a chance to open his mouth. "I know I should be grateful for all you've done for me, and I am, I just can’t—I'm so sorry..."

"Do you really think so little of me, Frodo?" Bilbo asked him quietly. "Has it not occurred to you that I, too, would wish to have your parents back with you where they belong? Can you not imagine what I would have given to spare you this pain, and for myself to have the comfort of two very dear friends?"

Frodo stared at him dumbly.

"My dear boy," Bilbo sighed. "You are so clever and knowledgeable about so many things, but when it comes to matters close to your heart, you are a ninnyhammer, as Sam's Gaffer would say. No, I could not call you ungrateful. I don't see how gratitude enters into it at all. It is a cruel hand that fate has dealt you, and we are making the best we can of these circumstances. Having me for your guardian will always be second-best, and there is no shame in saying so."

Frodo blinked. "I've felt so isolated here, and I—I thought you'd be angry, Bilbo," he said lamely.

"You could have come to me, lad." The old hobbit was still sitting there, regarding him sympathetically. "And here I simply thought you wanted to be left to your own devices, have a break from your old uncle." Bilbo smiled slightly to soften his words.

"No!" Frodo exclaimed in surprise. "You've given up so much to take me in, Bilbo. I thought the least I could do was let you spend time with other adults and do as you wished, without being troubled by me. Not that I succeeded even in that!" the tween added, thinking of his ill-advised escapades.

"Well, I do wish you had come to me, but I could never be angry with you for being honest," Bilbo said, smiling at him now. "Although the reasons for your recent behaviour are becoming clearer. Grief is a deucedly tricky thing, but better dealt with out in the open. You never know when it will up and seize you, and it drives one to do the most inexplicable things. Tell me, did those ill-gotten mushrooms ease your mind more than I would have if you had told me what was bothering you earlier?"

"No, Uncle," Frodo said with a wry laugh. "In fact, I couldn't bear to eat them. I hid most of them in the stable, and the ponies got to them."

"Most of them?" Bilbo inquired.

Frodo shifted, embarrassed. "I left a few under a fence post. I suppose I should retrieve them for Farmer Maggot."

"Nonsense, lad," Bilbo said, brown eyes twinkling. "Maggot was furious—although he did seem rather impressed with you, curiously. Something about facing the music like a real hobbit, and not crawling away like a worm. In any case, it would be best to leave it alone."

Frodo looked at Bilbo in surprise. "Wh-what are you suggesting, Uncle?" he asked incredulously.

Bilbo got to his feet and opened the door. "I didn't have much appetite at second breakfast, my boy. I feel the need for a snack! Some nice mushrooms, perhaps. I trust you selected nice ones?"

"Bilbo... I stole those mushrooms," Frodo said, aghast. "What would my parents think of me now, I wonder."

Bilbo sat down again and regarded the youth compassionately. "Their hearts would break at what you've had to suffer, lad," he said in a quiet voice. "But they would be proud of the hobbit you've become, lapses in judgement and all. As I am," Bilbo added softly.

Frodo swallowed and looked away, unable to hold Bilbo's clear gaze a moment longer.

The old hobbit smiled. "And I believe that Drogo, at least, would strongly advise you not to let good mushrooms go to waste. What do you say to that snack, my boy?"

Frodo breathed in slowly, and felt the air was cleaner now. He got to his feet despite himself. Mad Baggins indeed. The tween looked at his wonderful, ridiculous uncle finally and nodded. He found he suddenly had a taste for mushrooms...

42. Helping and Parting

Peregrin Took quickly glanced around the crowded field and snatched another biscuit off the table. The thing was bigger than his hand, but he managed to get half of it into his mouth before someone else’s hand came down on his small shoulder.

"Pippin, I know you heard Momma say no more snacks before supper is brought out," Pearl said severely.

Pippin chewed for another minute, just until his mouth was empty enough to speak, and said, "That was hours ago. I'm hungry now!"

"That was ten minutes ago, and you know it. And look! They're already clearing away the snacks for supper."

Pippin stared at his sixteen-year-old sister beseechingly and clutched his remaining half-biscuit possessively.

Pearl fluffed out the skirts of her new blue dress and rolled her eyes. "All right, all right, finish that one. Just try not to get any more crumbs on your shirt."

Pearl ran off to join a nearby group of chattering lasses, and Pippin stuffed the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. Then, with a speed that would make any thief proud, he grabbed another four off the plate and tucked them into the pockets of his waistcoat. The wretched thing had a use after all!

He walked nonchalantly away from the food-laden table, hoping his pockets didn't bulge too noticeably. The field was crowded with hobbits celebrating his cousin Merry's birthday, but Pippin didn't see Merry anywhere about. The small lad looked around again, trying to detect his cousin among the forest of legs all around him, but to no avail. Perhaps Frodo would be easier to find. Pippin altered course and headed for the stable. He thought he had seen Frodo over there a few minutes ago, on the fringes of the crowd.

Sure enough, his older cousin was perched on a hitching rail, watching the partygoers. Pippin approached and held out a biscuit. "I took this for you before they took them away," he said shyly. He was dismayed to see the treat had gotten slightly smushed in his pocket.

Frodo looked down in surprise but smiled warmly when he saw Pippin. "Thank you," he said, accepting the biscuit gravely.

Pippin grinned back. He wanted to be just like Frodo when he was older.

"Would you like to sit up here, Pippin?" Frodo asked.

Pippin nodded eagerly, and Frodo hopped off the rail to help him up. They had hardly begun to eat their biscuits when Merry appeared.

"Frodo! Pippin!" he exclaimed, red-faced and breathless from excitement. "What are you doing all alone over here?"

"We're not alone," Pippin said, puzzled. "I'm with Frodo, and he's with me."

"Silly Took," Merry laughed. "Have you got another one of those?"

Pippin nodded and retrieved another half-crumbled biscuit from his pocket.

"Oh, your sisters are looking for you, Pip," Merry added between mouthfuls, just as Pearl spotted him and marched over.

Pippin clambered down. Merry and Frodo sat in silence as Pippin toddled toward his sister, still clutching his biscuit.

"Are you all right, Frodo?" Merry asked after a moment.

"Yes," Frodo replied. "I'm sorry I haven't been much fun lately."

Merry shrugged. "I'm glad you came anyway. I don't like you being so far away." He wasn't sure exactly what Frodo had gotten up to the last few days, but it had been easy to see his cousin was troubled about something.

"I'm glad I came, too," Frodo said, putting his arm around Merry and giving him a quick hug. "I don't get to see you nearly often enough."

Merry grinned, suddenly knowing what to say. "I must give you your birthday present!" The younger lad exclaimed. He handed over a flat bundle.

Frodo opened it to find a parcel of very fine writing parchment. He laughed. "I'll write you letters, you wily Brandybuck, but you'd better write back!"

"I will," Merry said earnestly. "But you're older, so you have to start. Now, I see supper being brought out over there. Let's go before Pippin gets a chance to eat it all!"

Frodo sat relaxing under a tree as the party wound down. Parents were beginning to round up the youngest children, and servants were clearing away the remains of the feast.

The tween finished the last bite of his apple and sighed. It had been an enjoyable party. Frodo couldn't recall the last time he'd seen so much food in one place. And since it was a child's party there had been no dancing. In Frodo's experience, parties with dancing tended to make the lasses behave even more ridiculously than usual, although if he wanted to be honest with himself, he had to admit he liked watching them dance.

He supposed the visit hadn't been all bad; it only seemed that way because the bad part had been so very distressing. It was wonderful to spend time with Merry again, and get to know Pippin.

Frodo couldn't bring himself to regret going to his parents' smial. The visit had distressed him, but still... they would always be his parents, and he had no wish to pretend that meant nothing to him. Perhaps one day he would be ready to go back there, memories and all. It was just a pity he couldn't take back how he had acted afterwards.

Frodo watched Poppy come out the kitchen door, her lips pursed grimly as she began to clear a table. He had been avoiding someone who had always been kind to him, and there was no excuse for that. Frodo stared thoughtfully. There was perhaps one thing he could do for Poppy, at least, if Bilbo could be persuaded to stay one more day...

April 5, 1395

"Come on, Alice!" Alar Goodchild said in exasperation.

Alice merely looked at him with her great cow eyes and returned her concentration to grinding grass between her molars.

"Fine then, ye great beast. I'll leave your picket line right here and ye can just crop this patch bare."

Alar turned his back on his stubborn cow and returned to the barn to carry out the rest of his chores. On his way across the yard, he spied a lone figure walking up the lane to the farmhouse. Alar halted in surprise. He didn't get many visitors, and he usually liked it that way.

Who would be calling at this hour? One of the neighbours to borrow something, perhaps? The farmer stared, momentarily wishing it could be Poppy.

He dusted off his hands and came around the side of the house just as his visitor reached the front step and lifted his hand to knock.

Alar hesitated. It was a well-dressed young hobbit, perhaps in his mid-tweens; certainly not one of the neighbours. He was slightly built and fair-skinned, clearly not accustomed to labouring on a farm. What did a young gentlehobbit want with him? Alar cleared his throat and waited until the dark-haired lad saw him. "Somethin' I can help ye with?" he said.

"Good day to you, Mr. Goodchild," the younger hobbit said politely. "Frodo Baggins at your service. May I speak with you?"

"Er, all right, young fellow," Alar said reluctantly, and opened the door for his visitor. He was more puzzled than ever. The name sounded familiar, but he was certain he didn't know any Bagginses.

Alar and Frodo seated themselves at the table by the hearth, and Alar self-consciously hoped he didn't smell too much of Alice.

"I hope you don't think it odd of me to call on you like this," Frodo began awkwardly. "I know Poppy Puddifoot."

Alar started and looked at the boy suspiciously. Someone from Poppy's work, then. He knew some of those lads at Brandy Hall were rascals. Just the other day at the market, old Maggot had been complaining that another one had been pilfering his mushrooms. Contrary to Maggot's usual habit, he hadn't named the offender, but cautious Alar was generally wary of any hobbit he didn't know.

Did this boy mean to make trouble for him and Poppy? He had enough difficulty finding a suitable time and place to discuss marriage as it was; he hadn't seen her at all in a month, and with every passing day he grew more afraid she would forget him. Of course, the reason he couldn't act yet was that he knew how important it was to Poppy that these things be done properly. With her family so far away and none of them having the time or means to travel, he didn't see how it could be accomplished in the near future. It was a maddening quandary.

When Alar didn't say anything, Frodo pressed on. "I also know Bell Gamgee in Hobbiton. Her husband works for my cousin Bilbo. I believe she is a cousin of yours?"

"Aye. Aye, Bell and I are second cousins," Alar stammered, for he had finally been able to place the boy's name. This was the lad Poppy was so fond of, who had gone away to Hobbiton to live with that queer adventurer. Alar hadn't seen Bell in years, but he'd heard through the usual relatives that his cousin thought highly of this boy as well. But the question remained, what did Frodo want with him?

"How is Bell?" Alar asked in a more pleasant tone. He knew he was shy and awkward; he had never been good with words.

"Very well," Frodo said, not seeming to notice the change in Alar's tone. "She tries to spoil me rotten with her baking, I'm afraid."

"Aye, that sounds like Bell," Alar agreed.

The awkward silence fell again, and Alar shifted on the hard bench.

"Well, I shan't keep you from your work, Mr. Goodchild," Frodo said finally. "I wanted to ask if you would have tea with me this afternoon."

Alar stared at Frodo, flabbergasted. A strange turn of events indeed. What was this boy up to? But he accepted the invitation politely as he opened the door for Frodo, because he couldn't think of a good reason not to. What could a young gentlehobbit possibly have to say to him? More to the point, what would he find to say to Frodo?"

Alar watched the tween walk away and then trudged back to the barn, wishing he could have thought of a decent reason to refuse the invitation.

Frodo made it back to Brandy Hall in time for elevenses. It was nearly a two-hour walk from Alar's farm; it was no wonder Poppy didn't see him often.

Of course, normally the lady's family would invite her suitor to their smial, and if they approved of him, leave the couple alone to make the arrangements for a wedding, but neither Poppy nor Alar had family in the area. Frodo didn't know much about courtship traditions, but he remembered enough of his conversation with Poppy five days ago to know that this one was important to her. Now that he had met her suitor, he had no doubt that Alar would also know how important it was to Poppy.

Frodo smiled to himself as he approached the kitchen to take care of the remaining detail. He only hoped Poppy wouldn't be affronted by his meddling.

"Miss Poppy?" Frodo caught the attention of the kitchen maid as she prepared to scrub an iron pot.

"Why, Mr. Frodo!" Poppy exclaimed. Frodo felt a stab of guilt when he saw how concerned she looked. "Are you all right, lad?"

"Yes," Frodo said hastily. "Please don't worry about me. I am very sorry about the other day."

"You've naught to be sorry for," Poppy replied, watching him quizzically. "Did ye get enough to eat at elevenses?"

"Yes, thank you," Frodo replied. "I only wanted to ask a favour. I've invited a guest to tea this afternoon, and I was hoping you'd have time to put some things together."

"Oh, o' course!" Poppy said fondly. "Will ye want it in the fourth sitting room? I don't think anybody's using it."

"That will be fine," Frodo said as he turned to leave. "Three o'clock. And make it something extra nice, please," he couldn't resist adding with a smile.

Shortly before three, Frodo sat alone in the fourth sitting room. It really was a nice room. Very small, but bright and clean and with fresh flowers in all the bowls. Frodo had never formally invited someone to tea before, and he felt rather silly doing it now.

He watched as Poppy backed into the room, bearing a tray laden with cups, plates, and steaming teapot. She laid them out very nicely on the table in front of Frodo.

"I'll just be right back with the food," Poppy said cheerfully.

Frodo returned her smile, and as soon as she was out of sight, got up and hurried down the hall in the other direction.

Alar was just being shown in, right on time.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Goodchild," Frodo said, and escorted the well-scrubbed but clearly nervous farmer back to the sitting room.

Frodo poured Alar a cup of tea, but none for himself. He didn't try to make small talk; somehow he thought that would make Alar even more uncomfortable than he already looked sipping tea from one of Brandy Hall's finest cups.

Finally the door opened again, and Frodo got up quickly. Alar rose also, out of politeness, but froze in surprise as Poppy came in.

Frodo hurried to take the tray from a very startled Poppy before she could drop it, and guided the unresisting kitchen maid into the chair he had just vacated. He poured tea for Poppy and motioned for Alar to take his seat again.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Goodchild," Frodo said. He could feel his face burning. He tried not to think of how Bilbo would laugh if he could see what his ward was up to right now. "I've just remembered, I have... an urgent engagement this afternoon. Miss Poppy, I hope you'll stay for a bit and keep Mr. Goodchild company."

Two shocked faces turned to Frodo, and Alar's expression slowly changed to one of understanding and amusement.

Frodo excused himself and made a hasty retreat, closing the door behind him. He went to the kitchen and did what tasks he could so Poppy wouldn’t get behind schedule.  He waited an hour, hoping it was sufficient for the couple to reach an agreement.

When Frodo returned he knocked hesitantly on the door. He had certainly never done any matchmaking before, and hoped to never do any again. But he couldn't bear to see someone he cared about unhappy when he might be able to do something about it, and so he'd had to try, no matter how ridiculous he felt.

When Alar opened the door, Frodo suddenly realized he had no idea what one said in such a situation. He looked from one face to the other uncertainly.

"I'd best get back to the kitchen," Poppy said, rising from her chair. As she passed Frodo in the doorway, she took his face in her hands and kissed each cheek. "You're a darling boy, Mr. Frodo," she said.

Frodo flushed as Alar reached for his hand and shook it vigorously.

"Thank you," he said simply. "I shan't forget this. I know it ain't worth much, but if ever I can do anything for you, you've only to ask."

April 6, 1395

"Come back and see us again, dear," Esmeralda said, hugging Frodo tightly.

Frodo hugged her back, and then Saradoc and Merry, and little Pippin, who had insisted on coming with Merry to see him off.

Bilbo said his goodbyes and they set off down the road.

Frodo remembered the last time he had left Brandy Hall with Bilbo; that was over four years ago now. He looked up at his uncle's thoughtful face and smiled. It was good not to be alone in the world, very good indeed.

43. Summertime

Three years later…

Midsummer 1398

“Oh, come on, Frodo, you need to have more fun!”

“We’ve been having fun all day,” Frodo retorted, rubbing his arm where Folco had punched him good-naturedly. “I was in the middle of a particularly interesting book when you waylaid me, too.”

“Always the scholar, aren’t you,” Folco teased, but there was a note of admiration in his voice. Frodo’s imaginative games had sometimes gotten him into scrapes when he was younger, but among those hobbits who didn’t dismiss the residents of Bag End as completely cracked, he was reckoned to be one of the most well-educated and learned tweenagers in Hobbiton. And those who couldn’t abide putting foolish, fanciful notions about elves and wizards into a young hobbit’s head would at least admit that Frodo was as generous and well-mannered as anyone could wish.

“You need to spend more time with other young folks and less with dusty old books,” Folco continued, mopping his brow. The late afternoon sun was beating down on them mercilessly. “Besides, it’s only tea. You’ll know everyone, and your precious book will still be there when you get home.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Frodo smiled. “And here I was worrying a pack of wargs would stop by in my absence and rip it to pieces.”

Folco laughed and slung an arm around Frodo’s shoulders. “I’m glad to see your scholarly activities haven’t diminished your sense of humour, my friend.”

Frodo grinned. He supposed it would seem to Folco that he spent all his time with Bilbo’s books. But he passed plenty of hours out of doors in the fresh air, walking and thinking, or reading, or climbing trees, or keeping Samwise company in the garden. Frodo was content. He liked the young hobbits Folco went about with, and he always had an enjoyable time with them, but he had no need to be surrounded by a gaggle of friends at all hours of the day.

Folco began to whistle tunelessly as they approached the door to the Bywater Inn. He pushed open the heavy door and Frodo followed him inside.

The weather was hot even at this time of day, and all the windows were open. The innkeeper wouldn’t light the lamps while there was still daylight. Frodo’s eyes were still adjusting to the relative darkness when he heard Gordo Grubb call out, “Hoy, Folco! Frodo! We ordered you food. Come sit down before it goes stale!”

The two lads needed no further urging. They hurried over to the large table in the corner and dropped into the empty chairs.

“Glad you could make it, Frodo,” Heather Proudfoot said warmly.

“Yes, good on Folco for dragging you out of that dark hovel you live in, Frodo,” Will Bracegirdle said dryly, then resumed trying to light his pipe.

“Here, silly! You’re supposed to puff on it,” Emerald Bracegirdle said helpfully to her chagrined brother. Will was the eldest at the little gathering and Emerald the youngest after Gordo, but she never hesitated to make it known when she thought someone wasn’t doing something right.

“I heard you can do it by waving the thing about in the air,” Gordo put in earnestly. At twenty-five he was four years younger than Frodo, but already clearly smitten with Emerald Bracegirdle.

“I’ve never heard that,” Emerald said scornfully, reaching across the table for a scone.

“I suppose everyone has their own way to go about it,” Heather said with a tranquil smile. She would be of age in a year, and often took it upon herself to be peacemaker among her younger and more hot-headed friends.

The tweens’ chatter soon decreased to the occasional comment as they began to address their food in earnest. The back of Frodo’s shirt was still sticking to him but in the dim, breezy room he soon forgot about the discomfort of the heat. The food was good, as was the company.

The two lasses glanced over at the bar in annoyance as a burst of raucous laughter disrupted the quiet hum of conversation.

“That fellow is so rude!” Emerald pronounced, tossing her sandy curls irritably.

Gordo was nodding automatically in agreement when he paused and said, “Isn’t that old Fatty Bolger with Lotho? I didn’t know they were friends.”

Frodo, surprised, turned quickly to look at the hobbits over by the bar.

“Don’t know how they can drink ale on a day this hot,” Will muttered, shaking his head and taking a big swallow of his iced tea.

Sure enough, Frodo recognized Lotho Sackville-Baggins holding up a half-pint mug, and Fatty, Ted Sandyman and another lad were with him. Frodo was about to turn back to the table when Lotho happened to glance up and see him. The older tween looked startled for a moment, then grinned sourly and raised his mug in a sarcastic salute.

Frodo sighed and looked away. He had seen Lotho in town many times in the years since their last altercation, when Lotho had come upon Frodo in the woods behind Bagshot Row; Hamson Gamgee had happened along and stopped Lotho’s mischief. Lotho usually held his temper in check now, and made every effort to appear civil to Frodo in public, but Frodo knew he still carried a grudge. And now apparently Frodo’s and Folco’s old friend, Fredegar Bolger, had fallen in with Lotho. This news distressed Frodo more than he might have expected, given that Fatty had shunned their friendship years ago and hardly spoken to them since.

“I’m sure Fatty will come to his senses soon enough,” Heather said, casting a glance Frodo’s way. They all knew of Lobelia’s longstanding desire for Bag End, and the more personal animosity Lotho held for Frodo.

“He will if he ever stops listening to his father,” Folco grumbled. “That fellow always did put the most unfortunate notions in Fatty’s head. And have you ever seen him cozying up to old Otho? No wonder poor Fatty is so mixed up.”

Frodo looked at his friend sympathetically but said nothing. Folco and Fatty had been the best of friends once upon a time, and Folco never seemed to give up hope that they would be again. Frodo missed his old playmate, too, and it rankled to see him with Lotho’s crowd.

Most everyone who had any close contact with the Sackville-Bagginses knew they valued nothing but themselves and learned to steer well clear. But there were many who sought favour with the S.-B.’s, simply because they were perceived to be a family of wealth and power. Frodo knew better, of course, but Lobelia in particular went to great lengths to appear influential; she had fooled many over the years, including Fatty’s father, no doubt.

Otho, by all accounts, had been an unremarkable hobbit before Lobelia married him and took things in hand. It was said he never would have realized his present station if not for his ambitious wife. Lotho took after his mother in his love of the finer things, but he had a cruel streak that the meddlesome and petty Lobelia had never exhibited. Lotho enjoyed flaunting his power over those less fortunate than he, and seemed to take no pleasure from anything unless he could torment someone in the bargain.

The others had turned back to their food and Frodo was just about to do likewise when a shadow fell across his bowl.

“Good day, everyone,” Lotho said. Over the years he had mastered the trick of keeping just enough sneer in his voice to show his disdain without being openly insulting.

“Lotho,” Will replied stiffly. The others nodded reluctantly in greeting. Frodo saw Fatty and Ted trailing behind, with the other lad, and realized that Lotho and his friends were leaving. He wished Lotho would hurry.

“Hullo, Heather,” Lotho continued, grinning as he spotted her seated on the other side of the table. “It’s been far too long.”

Heather eyed him coldly and said nothing, which only made Lotho’s smile grow. Other than Frodo, no one in the group had much history with Lotho, but they all knew him well enough to dislike him.

“Oh, Frodo, I didn’t see you there!” Lotho said with an exaggerated smile, looking down at Frodo as though he’d only just seen him.

“Hullo, Lotho,” Frodo said gravely.

Lotho made a great show of peering around the table. “I don’t see that young Gamgee with you, Cousin. Decided to leave the servants at home? Thought you could do for yourself today, did you?” He laughed at his own remark, and his companions joined in. Except Fatty, Frodo noticed. His old friend just looked uncomfortable.

Frodo refused to rise to the bait; he knew Lotho only wanted to anger him. “Sam has more important things to do with his time,” he said evenly. Emerald smiled at Lotho’s annoyed expression, and Folco toasted him with his mug of tea.

Lotho’s mask of congeniality slipped for the first time. “I see you continue to disgrace your ill-gotten name,” he said dangerously. “Maybe one day I’ll teach you how to act like a gentlehobbit.”

“I doubt you’ll ever have the opportunity, but thank you for your concern,” Frodo said mildly.

Lotho slammed his fist down on the table beside Frodo, infuriated by his inability to intimidate his cousin.

Frodo did his best not to react as Lotho hissed “You never know—situations can change,” right by his ear.

Will had stood up angrily when Lotho’s fist made their tableware rattle, and Lotho glanced at him briefly before storming from the inn.

Fatty looked awkwardly at Frodo for a moment before following suit.

“I don’t know how you keep your temper with that beast, Frodo,” Heather shook her head angrily.

“You’re a cool one, all right,” Gordo said admiringly.

“He gets a good deal of practice,” Folco sighed. “Lotho is the one who could use instruction on proper behaviour from you, Frodo.”

“He never gives up, does he!” Emerald exclaimed. “Does he still suppose his family has any chance of getting Bag End?”

Frodo frowned down at his tea. He had thought maybe Lotho had abandoned that hope, but his last remark said otherwise. Frodo had heard a clear threat there; Lotho still thought there was a chance their fortunes would reverse.

“I suppose he does,” Frodo said in answer to Emerald’s question. “I wish they would just move on. Bilbo will never give them Bag End; he hates the thought of them living there!”

“Well, Lobelia is never happy unless she has something to scheme about,” Heather said with a smile.

A little later, Frodo and Folco were headed home. Frodo had decided to walk with Folco to the Boffin smial so they could talk longer, even though it took him a little out of his way.

“I can’t believe you’ve never been to the Fair!” Folco was saying.

“Well, the White Downs are a good distance from Buckland,” Frodo replied. “Most of my kin didn’t want the fuss of bringing children along; I was not the only one left at home!”

“You’re in for a treat, my friend,” Folco enthused. “All the sights you’ll see! The folks you’ll meet! And then, of course, there is the food…”

Folco’s eyes were shining at the thought, and he licked his lips.

Frodo couldn’t help laughing at Folco’s expression. “I can’t wait,” he assured his friend as they turned down the road to Folco’s home. “Even Bilbo seems excited about it. I don’t think he’d have let me stay behind had I wanted to!”

“I knew that old fellow had some sense,” Folco grinned as he approached his front door. “Would you like to come in awhile, Frodo? Maybe stay to supper?”

“Thank you, no,” Frodo said. “Bilbo has been working on his book today; he’s liable to forget all about supper if I don’t get home and remind him.”

"Another time, then,” Folco said cheerfully, and they parted with a wave.

Back on the road, Frodo turned toward the Hill. Folco lived near Hobbiton, so besides the village he only had to pass a few farms and some large smials.

Including Sack Top, Frodo suddenly realized as he came within sight of a familiar-looking garden. He doubted Lotho was home yet, but one never knew. And he was in no mood for more of his cousin’s ire. Frodo quickened his pace and turned his eyes away from the imposing residence of the Sackville-Bagginses. He could go back and take another way, but he couldn’t help but feel it was ridiculous to change his route merely because Lotho detested him for no good reason.

Frodo didn’t hear a sound or see a hint of movement in the windows. He was just beginning to feel silly for being so cautious when the hot stillness of the summer afternoon was shattered.

“Oh, Frodo, dear!” a voice shrilled. “Wait a moment, if you please!”

Lobelia.

Frodo halted in his tracks; it was no use pretending he hadn’t heard that. Ears as far away as Overhill were probably still ringing. He turned slowly and saw Lobelia’s dumpy figure standing in the garden. “Good day,” he said reluctantly as she came bustling over to him. He hoped he could get this over with as quickly as possible.

“It’s been too long, you sweet boy!” Lobelia cooed as she seized his arm. “Come inside, come inside! You must have a cup of tea with me!”

Frodo looked at her, so startled he didn’t even notice that her claw-like fingers were digging painfully into his arm. Lobelia had never, ever spoken to him in this fashion before. She was more likely to box his ears than call him a ‘sweet boy.’ What was she up to?

“Ah, thank you, but I’ve already had my tea, ma’am,” Frodo said hastily, looking about in his desperation to escape whatever new trouble Lobelia had in mind.

“Oh, no, no!” Lobelia cried, hauling him towards Sack Top’s grand entrance despite his protests. “A fine, growing lad like you? I must be allowed to feed you!”

Frodo’s mouth hung open as he was tugged into the foyer, too shocked was he to come up with any further excuses. Before he could get his wits about him, Frodo found himself sitting in the fanciest armchair he had ever seen, a cup of tea in his hand, and an enormous selection of biscuits laid before him.

Frodo snuck a glance at his hostess, sitting in the opposite chair. Yes, she definitely appeared to be Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. The same person who had terrorized him his very first week in Bag End, and who had refused to discipline her son for attacking him.

That person was now watching him with beady eyes, smiling in the most sickening fashion.

“Is the tea all right? Shall I blow on it for you?” Lobelia asked sweetly.

“No!” Frodo exclaimed. “No. It’s very good, thank you,” he felt compelled to add. He absently stirred his tea and noticed with a start that the spoon Lobelia had given him was one of Bilbo’s. One of the set he had several missing from.

As he stared dazedly at the spoon, he heard Lobelia say, “Marvellous! And how is dear Bilbo? In good health, I hope?”

“Yes, thank you,” Frodo answered automatically.

“Good!” Lobelia beamed. “And yourself?”

“I’m quite well.” Frodo wondered if she would ever get to the point, for he didn’t believe this bizarre act for a moment.

“Delighted to hear it!” Lobelia shrilled. “I ask after you constantly with my darling Lotho, of course, but it is good to hear it from your own lips.”

Frodo attempted to mould his face into a polite smile.

“Lotho is so fortunate to have a friend such as you, dear,” Lobelia continued, pursing her lips as though tasting something sour. “Yes, I am relieved you are in good health. It is fortunate indeed that Bilbo has the means to take such good care of you.”

Frodo waited, hardly daring to imagine what she would say next.

“We are not quite as fortunate, as I’m certain you know,” Lobelia sighed dramatically, “but we muddle through as best we can.”

“Er, yes,” Frodo said noncommittally. He thought he knew where this was going, and he was not to be disappointed.

“We never complain, of course,” Lobelia continued.

“Of course,” Frodo replied flatly.

“I’m sure you’ll put in a good word for us with Bilbo, yes? You’re such a good boy,” Lobelia gushed.

“I really should be going, Cousin Lobelia,” Frodo said, sensing that she might allow him to leave now. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Oh, very well,” Lobelia said, and rose to her feet, peering at him calculatingly.

Frodo hastened back to the foyer, but it seemed Lobelia was not finished being friendly.

“I suppose you and Bilbo will be going to the Fair,” she sniffed as she followed behind him.

“Yes, ma’am,” Frodo replied.

“We shall be going as well, although we can scarce afford such an expense,” she added pointedly.

Frodo said nothing. He knew Bilbo would help his least favourite relations if they were really destitute, but living far above their means merely out of pride hardly qualified.

“I suppose you’ll be going for the opening?” Lobelia continued, although she seemed to be running out of steam at last.

“We’ll be going a few days early, actually,” Frodo said. “Hamson Gamgee is getting married before the Fair begins, and we want to be there for the wedding.”

Lobelia paused in the act of opening the front door and stared at him, aghast. “You—you would be seen at such an event?” she exclaimed.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Frodo said cheerfully, enjoying the way Lobelia’s face was turning red with her efforts to control herself.

Lobelia glowered at him as she opened the door, muttering under her breath “Why you impudent little… Brandybuck trash… no sense of decorum at all…”

“Good day to you, Cousin Lobelia,” Frodo said pleasantly. He was far more at ease with her familiar behaviour.

But Lobelia recovered herself and rallied for one more effort. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart!” she cried, and kissed him firmly on the cheek. Her lips were dry and papery, and her grip on his shoulder was fierce as it propelled him out the door.

Then, miraculously, Frodo was outside again, breathing the free air. He restrained himself from running to the road, just in case Lobelia was watching, but as soon as he was safely around the bend, he gave in to his feelings.

“Ugh!” Frodo exclaimed. He wiped his cheek with his sleeve, shuddering at the thought of being kissed by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, of all people, and trotted on down the road at a rapid pace.

44. Something in the Air

Late summer 1398, White Downs

“I give you Hamson and Henna Gamgee!” cried the mayor’s assistant. “May they never be parted.”

The small group of hobbits arrayed beneath the massive willow tree burst into applause as the newlyweds turned to face their families and friends.

“Let’s have a kiss, then!” a voice shouted. It sounded suspiciously like Halfred.

Gaffer Gamgee frowned disapprovingly; he didn’t hold with public displays of affection. But Bell, standing beside him in the front row, laughed delightedly. “Yes, a kiss!” she cried.

Marigold Gamgee jumped up and down in her excitement, and May and Daisy cheered along with the rest of the crowd.

Frodo, standing with Bilbo right up front as honoured guests, grinned unsympathetically at Hamson, who was turning redder by the minute.

When at last he could stand it no longer, Hamson turned to his smiling bride and kissed her gently.

Wisteria Twofoot, Henna’s widowed mother, immediately burst into applause, and the other onlookers followed suit.

“All right, let’s have quiet now,” the harassed official tried to make himself heard over the racket. “Would the seven witnesses please come forward? The seven witnesses!”

Besides Hamfast, Bell, and Wisteria, there was Andwise, the roper from Tighfield who had trained Hamson in his trade. Andwise’s wife and son, Emerald and Anson, also came forward. Bilbo was the final witness.

A hush fell over the group at this most solemn part of the ceremony. Hamson and Henna signed the marriage contract first, then the seven witnesses added their signatures in red ink.

Wild applause broke out when the witnesses stepped back, and the group began to disperse.

A few minutes later, family and friends of the young couple had gathered in a back room of the Flying Squirrel Inn. It was time for the wedding breakfast; this was a simple affair, but the food was plentiful and everyone was in high spirits.

Young Samwise was in especially high spirits, for he had an enormous plate of hotcakes steaming before him. He licked his lips and stared around for the butter.

“Now, Hamson, dear, you did receive the things I sent?” Wisteria Twofoot’s anxious voice carried down the long table.

Sam glanced that way and saw his brother smile patiently. “I did, and I’ve put them in the kitchen already.”

“Don’t worry, Mum,” Henna said from her seat beside Hamson. “We won’t be running out o’ table linens, thanks to you. The hole is set up grand! We’ll be just fine.”

“I know, lass, I know,” Wisteria chuckled. “But I’ve worried and fretted over ye for 32 years! I shan’t be stopping on account of a mere wedding.”

Hamfast and Bell laughed, but Henna regarded her mother with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

Fortunately, the Gaffer’s initial misgivings about the worthiness of the Tighfield Twofoots had proven baseless. The whole Gamgee family had warmed to Henna and her mother almost immediately. Henna was not strikingly beautiful, but her thick chestnut curls and sparkling hazel eyes couldn’t fail to please. She was as quiet and reserved as Hamson most of the time, but she had a way of putting even strangers at ease with her warm manner and gentle words.

Henna’s father had died when she was hardly more than a babe, and Wisteria had managed the family’s small inn ever since. Henna, as a consequence of working in an inn most of her life, knew how to do all sorts of things that interested the younger Gamgees. She could cook inn food, for one thing.

“What do you need, Sam?” the whisper reached Sam’s ears from across the table. Sam turned to see Frodo smiling at him. “Butter?”

Sam nodded, a trifle embarrassed that he had been so obvious about it. But then, Frodo always knew somehow what he was thinking. He had never ceased to marvel that the tweenager treated him more like one of his young cousins than the insignificant son of the gardener. It had been easy to take for granted when Sam was younger and didn’t know any better, but he was going on eighteen now and well aware that his family’s special relationship with the Bagginses was an unusual privilege.

It had been with a certain amount of diffidence that Sam’s parents had invited the pair to the wedding and breakfast, but Bilbo had accepted with alacrity. And here they were, dressed in their fine party clothes, cheerfully eating the simple wedding food and making easy conversation with the other guests.

Frodo put down his fork and took up Sam’s search for the butter. The cerulean gaze moved swiftly over half-empty platters and crocks of jam and honey. Sam couldn’t help a flicker of amusement at Frodo’s intense expression. The older lad finally located the elusive dish between Alar and Poppy Goodchild, and soon had the butter in front of Sam. Sam busied himself with his hotcakes, for he was even hungrier by this point.

He heard Frodo laugh at something Poppy Goodchild said. Sam did not know Poppy, although he knew her husband was a distant cousin of his mother’s, but the couple had greeted Frodo very warmly. Sam’s curiosity was aroused, and he decided he would ask Frodo about it later. When they first met, Sam had been in awe of the older lad. He still thought Frodo was quite the best hobbit he knew, but he also knew Frodo a good deal better after all these years.

He had seen those queer blue eyes dance with laughter at a good joke, and tighten with private anguish. He had seen Frodo’s eyes watching him with understanding and sympathy, and blazing with anger at a bully. Frodo’s life had not been easy, and anyone who knew his vulnerabilities could not help feeling deeply protective as well as fond of the kind-hearted tween. At least, that was what Sam thought. It was beyond him how some folks could know Frodo’s past and use it to hurt him whenever they got the chance. He was thinking of the Sackville-Bagginses, of course. He had never understood what drove such people, and he hoped he never did.

Later that morning, Frodo and Bilbo returned to their room at the Warbling Turtle, the largest inn on the White Downs.

“Frodo-lad, is that your best waistcoat?” Bilbo asked as Frodo began to change into his everyday clothes.

Frodo looked up in surprise. “I suppose so,” he said as Bilbo inspected the discarded garment.

“And these trousers!” Bilbo exclaimed, coming closer. “Why, they’re nearly worn through at the knees. When was the last time you had new clothes, my boy?”

Frodo had to stop and think. “A year?” he guessed.  He had been going through a growth spurt lately, and it was harder than ever to keep his clothes in good shape.

Bilbo shook his head. “I’m sorry I haven’t been paying more attention, lad,” he sighed. “And you never ask for anything, of course. What a dreadful guardian I’ve been!” The old hobbit put his arm around Frodo’s shoulders as he sat beside him on the bed.

It was said half in jest, but Frodo read something more serious in Bilbo’s expression. In truth, he had been concerned about his elder cousin the last few months. Never before had Frodo seen him spend so much time alone in his study, working on his book. Sometimes poring over his maps, sometimes merely staring out the window while he fingered his magic ring absently.

Frodo didn’t know what it all meant, and he couldn’t help his concern. There was no one alive on this earth he loved more than Bilbo. “You’ve already given me more than I could ever ask,” Frodo said finally. “You’ve done more for me than anyone!”

“Nonsense, boy,” Bilbo said gruffly. “It’s nothing to what you deserve. Besides, I can’t have my ward running about looking like a ragamuffin! You’ll come with me to a tailor tomorrow, won’t you? There are several good ones setting up shop here for the Fair, and we should be able to get you some nice things before we return to Hobbiton.”

“Tomorrow?” Frodo hesitated. “All right.” He had been planning to meet up with Folco Boffin, whose family was due to arrive tonight. They had counted on spending the first day of the Fair together. But he couldn’t bear to refuse Bilbo. He hoped this wouldn’t take too long and he could find Folco later.

“Oh, what a handsome young fellow!” cried Fern Tunnely. “This blue linen matches the colour of your eyes exactly.”

Bongo Tunnely murmured in cheerful agreement around the pins he was holding in his mouth as he circled behind Frodo.

The tween sighed inwardly. Bilbo had brought him to the best tailor in town, but after it had been agreed what clothes he needed and how many, Mrs. Tunnely had chased his uncle out the door, saying Frodo was more than old enough not to have his guardian hovering while he made his choices.

That had been almost three hours ago. Frodo shifted restlessly on the stool.

“Please hold still, young master,” Bongo reproached him immediately.

Frodo murmured an apology and made himself stand still. He would never be called fashionable, and he was not at all dissatisfied with his current wardrobe, but he supposed it was well to get new things before the old disintegrated. He tried to ignore the tugging as Bongo pinned up his new trouser cuffs and concentrated instead on the view out the window. Today was the opening of the Fair, so there was plenty to see.

Frodo’s fingers twitched at his sides, wondering if he’d get to see any of it today. He hoped at least Folco was having more fun than he was.

Folco smiled to himself as he bent down to examine a cart with six kinds of mushrooms for sale. He certainly was having fun today.

“Pity I couldn’t find Frodo,” the grey-eyed hobbit muttered to himself. “He would love this.” Folco picked up one of the largest mushrooms he had ever seen and wondered if he should buy it, just to show off.

“Best-tasting mushrooms in the West Farthing,” the vendor singsonged.

Folco frowned, unable to decide how many he should get.

A sudden crash interrupted his deliberations, and Folco turned his head just in time to see none other than Lobelia Sackville-Baggins at the next stall pull her hand back guiltily. A well-dressed lass about his own age, standing a few feet from Lobelia, turned in surprise just as he did.

It was a potter’s stall, and Folco judged from the fragments on the ground that Lobelia had dropped a large and probably expensive bowl.

The potter hurried from the back of his stall and exclaimed in dismay when he saw his shattered piece. “Will ye be paying for that, ma’am?” he asked pointedly, turning to Lobelia.

“I—certainly not!” the flustered lady exclaimed. “I didn’t break it. This girl here did!” She pointed a bony finger at the tweenager Folco had noticed a moment ago.

The potter turned to glare at the girl. “Well?” he said. “That was one o’ my best pieces.” He was a surly little fellow, and his messy curls were dusted liberally with particles of dry clay.

The girl looked shocked. “I—I was not involved, sir, I promise!” Her face had gone very white.

“Lying girl!” Lobelia screamed, and went on to say even worse things.

The potter then launched into an angry tirade about young folks today, thinking they can get away with anything because their parents have let them run wild.

Lobelia was smirking and nodding in agreement now, and other Fairgoers were stopping to see what the commotion was about. The girl was turning red with embarrassment or anger, and Folco noticed with mounting fury that tears were spilling from her wide green eyes.

Folco knew that if Frodo was here, he would intervene and have some clever way to handle both Lobelia and the potter while extricating the girl from the situation, and folks would listen to him. One couldn’t help listening to Frodo; he had the uncanny knack of thinking before he spoke, and meaning every word he said.

Folco didn’t think he had ever seen Frodo lose his temper, in all the years they had known each other. He hoped he wasn’t there if ever Frodo got really angry; Folco suspected it would be a frightening sight indeed.

Unfortunately, Frodo was not here, and thus there was no one to restrain Folco’s own rather quick temper.

He covered the distance to the pottery stall in three strides and interrupted the potter’s diatribe. “I saw the whole thing!” Folco exclaimed angrily. “Lobelia is lying. She is the one who dropped your bowl.”

Lobelia recovered from the unexpected interruption first. “Why, you impudent boy!” she cried. “How dare you call me a liar—the very idea!”

“How dare you blame an innocent bystander?” Folco retorted. “Pay this fellow and stop making a fool of yourself!”

The watching hobbits began to press in closer, eager to watch this new development.

Lobelia turned as red as a turnip, realizing that all eyes were upon her. “Well...” she said, reaching into her enormous handbag. “I didn’t break it, but I suppose I’ll pay for it anyway. Out of the goodness of my heart, of course.”

“Of course.” Folco glared at her.

Their audience were shaking their heads at Lobelia’s refusal to admit her guilt, but Lobelia put some money down on the table and hissed “You have made an enemy in me,” in Folco’s ear as she flounced away in a huff.

“Er, I’m right sorry about that, miss,” the little potter muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Right sorry I am. If there were some way I could make it up to ye...”

“That’s all right,” said the girl, drying her eyes on her handkerchief. “Just a misunderstanding, I’m sure.”

The surly potter bowed and returned to his stall, muttering in embarrassment.

“Thank you so much for your kindness,” the girl said then, and Folco realized she was speaking to him.

“Not at all,” Folco said automatically, for he had been distracted by the way her golden-brown hair shone in the sun.

“I shan’t forget it,” she said warmly, and extended her hand. “My name is Willow, by the way. Willow Loamsdown.”

“Folco Boffin at your service,” Folco replied, ashamed of himself for staring. He felt as if there was something in the air, slowing his mind. He took her hand and bent to kiss it. When he looked up again, she was watching him curiously. “Can I... er—I mean, if I may ask...” Folco hesitated, annoyed that his usual quickness with words had completely deserted him. “Would you have luncheon with me?” he finally got out.

Willow gently disengaged her hand, which Folco belatedly realized he was still holding, but she did not seem offended. “Thank you, I would like that,” she replied with a smile.

Folco grinned stupidly as he walked with Willow toward the food vendors. He would look for Frodo later, he decided.

45. The Free Fair

The first day of the Fair was a rousing success for Frodo, if one measured success in terms of new shirts and trousers. Frodo, unfortunately, did not subscribe to that particular school of thought, and by the second day he was desperate for some amusement. Folco, ever the thoughtful friend, tore himself away from his new sweetheart long enough to cover half the Fairgrounds with Frodo in a mere six hours. When Frodo finally returned to the Warbling Turtle that night, he was so full from all the delicious things he and Folco had sampled, and so exhausted from all the walking and the summer heat, that he fell asleep in his clothes.

The next few days, Frodo could be found either with Bilbo, Folco and his friends, Halfred and Samwise, or sometimes just wandering about by himself. The Tooks and Brandybucks began to arrive, and with them Merry and Pippin, Frodo’s favourite younger cousins. Many of the older hobbits soon became occupied with the myriad speeches, talks, and of course dinners held by the candidates for mayor and their supporters, leaving the tweens mostly to their own devices. There was a party almost every night, but the party that began the week of the mayoral election was an especially big one. Everyone was in a celebratory mood, there was plenty of food and wine and ale to be had, and the young hobbits danced joyously.

Even Frodo. He had been too shy to ask anyone to dance at first, and even Folco could not persuade him to try his luck. But when he saw a blushing Halfred Gamgee approach a pretty lass with raven-black hair, his courage mounted a little. He saw the girl nod agreeably, and the two whirled off into the throng of dancing tweens.

“Come on now, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said. The youngest Gamgee lad was sitting on the bench beside Frodo. “Just ask someone already! If ol’ Halfred can manage the thing, there can’t be much trick to it, if you follow me. You’ll be grand!”

Frodo glanced at the gardener’s son. Sam was grinning at him. “I’d like to see you try it, Samwise,” Frodo muttered.

Sam’s smile widened. “I’m only seventeen, sir. No one’ll be wanting to dance with me for years yet!”

“Well, when that day comes, you can be sure I’ll be right there to watch you make a fool of yourself,” Frodo grumbled.

Sam only laughed, unconcerned. Frodo looked around for Folco. He was sure no lass would want to dance with him, shy and awkward as he was, but if he was going to have a go, he at least wanted Folco to witness his effort.

He finally spotted his friend on the other side of the field, dancing energetically with that brown-haired girl, Willow, he’d met the first day of the Fair. Frodo smiled to see the pair; he had only met Willow once, but she had seemed a very sweet lass, both intelligent and witty.

Frodo sighed and got to his feet reluctantly. He supposed Sam could be his witness. “Here I go, Sam,” he muttered, and strode purposefully onto the dancing field.

A lass walked briskly past him with no partner, and Frodo hurried to speak to her before he lost his nerve. “Ah—would you dance with me?” he said quickly.

The girl stopped and smiled when she saw Frodo. “Thankee kindly, but I’ve got to serve the drinks, haven’t I?”

“Er—right.” Frodo attempted to return her smile. He had failed to notice the enormous tray full of mugs she carried; clearly she was a barmaid employed by the inn. He knew he was blushing now, and he carefully avoided looking back in Sam’s direction. Instead he forged boldly ahead to try again. At that point, the music stopped, and Frodo’s heart sank.

But the fiddlers quickly struck up a new tune, and the tween suddenly spotted another potential partner. This one held no tray of ales, and she had just finished the last dance and was looking around. Frodo pasted a smile on his face and walked over to her. “Would you like to dance?” he asked hopefully.

The girl turned to him, smiling politely. She looked him over quickly, and her smile broadened. “Yes, please!” she exclaimed, and seized Frodo by the hand.

He followed her, bewildered by his success, and they danced. And Frodo, to his own amazement, began to enjoy himself. He was not a bad dancer; Folco, and later Heather Proudfoot, had taught him everything he needed to know.

His partner was lively and friendly, and he danced another two dances with her. Just after Jasmine, as he learned her name to be, walked off for some refreshment, Frodo saw Emerald Bracegirdle grinning at him. Frodo grinned merrily back, and danced with her for awhile. Then he went back to his old seat by Sam, to quench his thirst with a few gulps of ale.

Sam was engaged in an intense game of Blueberries and Straw with some of the other teenagers, but he stopped long enough to smirk at Frodo and whisper “I told ye!”

Frodo rolled his eyes and went back to the dancing field. He saw another girl he didn’t know looking for a partner, and asked her to dance. She accepted eagerly, as did all the lasses he asked that night. Frodo couldn’t believe it was so easy, and he enjoyed the merriment and newfound confidence with great satisfaction. He saw Bilbo once, and the old hobbit had looked comically surprised to see Frodo dancing. Frodo laughed out loud as his uncle smiled and toasted him with a tankard of ale.

Bilbo chuckled to himself, delighted to see his heir beginning to come out of his shell at last. He noticed the group of mothers who had been gossiping at the next table fall silent and look at him.

“That’s a rare boy you’ve got there, Bilbo,” one of them said. “He’ll be a fine catch when he’s a mite older!”

“I daresay,” Bilbo agreed with a smile as he watched his nephew laughing at something his partner said, sapphire eyes sparkling merrily. The lad had a certain gracefulness about him, awkward though he felt about dancing. With his slight but well-nourished figure, smooth skin and dark russet hair, Frodo was certainly fair to look upon. Even an old hobbit like Bilbo could see that. And the boy’s good manners and consideration for others allowed him to make friends with relative ease.

But Bilbo sometimes worried. Frodo’s childhood had been by turns heartbreaking, traumatic, and merely difficult, resulting in a young hobbit who was a late bloomer in some ways, and yet far more mature than his friends in other ways. Frodo was twenty-nine, which meant he would come of age in just a few years.

“Oh, he’ll be all right,” the old hobbit muttered to himself. “He’s turned out far better than I could have hoped, with me the one raising him!” Bilbo shook his head, smiling faintly at the memory of the child he had taken in eight years ago, who had filled his heart.

The mayoral election began the next day, and all the talk centred on whether Mayor Whitfoot would win another term. That, and the weather, for it was growing unusually hot for late summer. By the end of the week, Whitfoot had been re-elected, and some Fair attendees were already packing and leaving for home. The rest wore their lightest summer clothes, and gave the inns a brisk business in the sale of cool drinks.

Frodo was walking along beside Bilbo, with Merry and little Pippin in tow, all four in their shirtsleeves.

“Are you sure you can handle these two, my lad?” Bilbo asked his ward, ruffling Merry’s golden curls affectionately.

“As if we would ever misbehave for Cousin Frodo!” Merry said sweetly. “Right, Pippin?”

“Rggh!” Pippin chimed in, not bothering to swallow the bite of candied apple he was chewing.

“Frodo, are you sure you’re all right?” Bilbo asked, peering at him in concern. “I still say you look a little pink. Perhaps you ought to stay out of the sun today.” Frodo did not have the ruddy complexion of most hobbits, and his fair skin burned easily.

“I’m fine, Bilbo,” Frodo protested. “You worry too much!”

The two smaller heads beside him bobbed vigorously in agreement, and Bilbo had to laugh at the trio. “Well, all right. Just see that you get some shade today. Have fun, lads!”

And so they set off, Merry tugging Frodo by one hand, Pippin tugging on the other. The latter, at eight years old, wasn’t much more than a toddler, but he could generate surprising force when motivated.

“Where are we going?” Frodo asked, laughing and trying to dislodge Pippin’s sticky little hand from his sleeve.

“I want to see the ponies!” Pippin announced, pointing with his candied apple.

“The ponies,” Merry nodded. “And then snacks.”

“All right,” Frodo said agreeably, dragging a sleeve across his brow. He did have a bit of a sunburn from the day before, and he wasn’t feeling all that well. It was abominably hot again today, but at least the ponies would be in shaded stalls.

“Look!” said Merry as they made their way across the marketplace. “It’s Lotho and Fatty. And what’s-his-name.”

“Ted,” Frodo supplied absently. “Merry, don’t point.”

Lotho and his cronies passed by without noticing Frodo, and Pippin stuck out his tongue at their retreating backs.

“Pippin,” Frodo sighed.

“Look!” Now Pippin was pointing. “It’s Sam and Halfred! Oh, let’s find out what they’re doing, please Cousin Frodo?”

“All right,” Frodo smiled into Pippin’s round green eyes. They would never get to the pony barn at this rate, but as long as his cousins were happy and occupied, it mattered not.

They altered course to intercept the two Gamgees standing off to the side, in the meagre shade of a few scraggly trees.

Samwise heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Here? Come on, Hal!” he protested. “We don’t need any more herbs, an’ that’s a fact!”

“Just a little willow bark, I think,” Halfred said absently, still gazing at the herbalist’s shop. More specifically, at the lass tending the counter. She was the raven-haired beauty he had danced with at the election party, and he had been trying to meet her again all week. She was being maddeningly coy about it, though. She hadn’t even told him her name yet. All he had been able to discover was that she worked as an assistant for Dr. Hornblower, the Hobbiton doctor, and his wife the herbalist.

“Hullo, Sam and Halfred!” Frodo called, and they both turned to see the blue-eyed tween approaching, cousins on either side. “What are you two doing this fine morning?”

“Ah—nothing,” Halfred said quickly.

“Hal’s trying to meet a lass,” Sam said matter-of-factly.

“Oh?” Frodo smiled quizzically while Merry and Pippin giggled.

“Sam, hush,” Hal muttered.

“That lass, right over there,” Sam went on helpfully, pointing toward the herbalist’s shop. “Right in there, the one with dark hair, like.”

“Sam!” Halfred moaned, putting a hand to his face.

“Oh, what!” Sam exclaimed. “I’ve waited for ye all morning. And yesterday, and the day afore that. Quit buyin’ herbs! She’s bound to get suspicious, if she ain’t already.”

“I’ll come with you, Halfred!” Merry piped up, bouncing on his toes. “I could tell her all sorts of things about you.”

“Take me, too!” added Pippin, clinging eagerly to Merry’s hand.

Halfred looked down at the two pleading faces and moaned again.

“I’ll tell you what, Hal,” Frodo said. “I could use a salve for my sunburn. I’ll come with you, if you like, and then you won’t have to buy anything more.”

“Oh, thankee, Mr. Frodo,” Hal said in relief. “That’ll do nicely.”

Frodo turned to the three smirking younger lads. “You three stay here!” he commanded sternly.

“Yes, Cousin Frodo,” Pippin singsonged sweetly, and promptly sat down in a shady spot on the grass.

Merry grabbed Sam’s sleeve and pulled the gardener’s son down as well. “Yes, Cousin Frodo!” Merry mimicked, poking at Pippin.

“You get along now,” Sam added. “Don’t want to keep your lass waiting!” He fluttered his handkerchief daintily, sending the other two into peals of laughter.

“That boy gets more outlandish with every passin’ day,” Halfred muttered as he walked beside Frodo.

Frodo didn’t reply, for he was thinking only of the coolness of the shop. He had a pounding headache now, his stomach was queasy, and his mouth painfully dry. The heat seemed to rise off the ground in great waves, threatening to wash him under.

“—all right?”

Frodo blinked and realized Halfred had been speaking. “I beg your pardon, what did you say?” Frodo asked, making himself focus on Hal’s worried face.

“I asked if you were all right, Mr. Frodo,” Halfred said. “You looked a mite peaked for a minute there. Do ye want to go back to your inn?”

“No, I’m fine, Hal,” Frodo hastened to assure the other tween, for he did feel better now that they were in the shade cast by the row of shops. “Let’s go in, shall we?”

They went into the herbalist’s shop and Frodo breathed in the cooler air gratefully.

“Somethin’ I can get for ye?” the girl behind the counter asked politely, smiling frostily at Halfred.

Halfred cleared his throat. “Yes—my... Fro—uh, Mr. Frodo needs something for his sunburn, if you have it.”

“Well, Mr. Frodo is in luck,” the girl said airily. “Doc Hornblower’s had a new batch of salve made up every day, what with the weather and all. I’ll fix up a jar for ye.”

“Thank you,” Frodo called as the girl went into the back of the shop.

Halfred was looking at him in exasperation. “You see how it is?” he mouthed.

Frodo grinned and took another deep breath. He really did feel much better out of the sun, although he was still frightfully thirsty. His busy mind set to work on what he might do to aid Halfred.

“May I ask your name, Miss?” Frodo said casually when the girl came back and set a small jar before him.

“Jessimine Goodbody, sir,” she replied, her hazel eyes watching him guardedly.

“Ah, thank you,” Frodo said, and dug into his trouser pocket to pay her. “My friend here is called Halfred Gamgee. He thinks quite a lot of you, and would welcome the chance to know you better.”

“Would he indeed?” Jessimine said archly. She didn’t turn to look at the furiously blushing Halfred, but her lips quirked slightly in amusement.

“Yes, he would,” Frodo continued. “I’ve known him many years, and he is quite an excellent fellow. Perhaps you would consider continuing this conversation with him instead of me?”

“Perhaps I would,” Jessimine said, “if ye would be so kind as to tell your silly friend to come on back at four, or thereabouts, when I would be glad to share a cup o’ tea.”

Frodo bowed gravely. “I will be sure to let him know.”

Jessimine bowed even lower. “Thankee most kindly, Mr. Frodo.”

“No trouble at all.” Frodo ushered Halfred out the door.

“And if he finds himself needin’ any more herbs, you just tell him it might be cheaper ta grow his own!” Jessimine called after them cheerfully.

Halfred smiled sheepishly as they stepped outside. “She has a sense o’ humour,” he said.

“Yes,” Frodo agreed. “You two should get along splendidly. I wonder if she likes to play pranks on her neighbours, too?” he wondered blandly.

“Aye—no! Now, Mr. Frodo, you know it were only that one time...” Halfred trailed off as he followed Frodo’s suddenly horrified gaze across the nearly empty market.

Merry, Pippin, and Sam were all standing where they had last seen them, and they were facing a most unwelcome trio: Lotho, Ted, and Fatty. Sam’s fists were clenched in anger and Pippin was looking on in alarm, but it was Merry who held Lotho’s full attention.

“How dare you!” the seventeen-year-old shouted furiously. “I’ll teach you to say that about—”

He was cut off as Lotho slapped him sharply across the face.

46. A Heated Confrontation

Merry did not cry out when Lotho slapped him, but Pippin screamed in rage and flew at Lotho, pounding the grown hobbit’s midsection with his tiny fists.

Lotho laughed and caught Pippin’s wrists easily. “Away from me, sprout,” he growled dangerously.

Frodo recovered from his shock and fairly flew across the nearly deserted marketplace. He didn’t notice Halfred right on his heels, for his vision was clouded with boiling rage. “Let go of him!” Frodo shouted furiously. He pulled Pippin protectively to himself.

Lotho grinned nastily, and Frodo wanted to punch his arrogant face into the next Farthing. “Ah, Frodo!” he sneered. “We were just talking about you.”

“He said the most vile things about you, Frodo, and our family,” Merry put in indignantly. He was glaring at Lotho, and there was a red handprint on his soft cheek.

Lotho made as if to lunge in Merry’s direction, and Frodo hurriedly stepped in between them, Pippin still clinging to his leg.

Frodo was glaring at Lotho too, but he wasn’t thinking of Lotho’s meaningless words. “How dare you strike Merry?” Frodo demanded in a low voice. “How dare you? What were you, raised by trolls?”

Lotho grinned even more, because he knew he had gotten to Frodo. All these years of trying to shatter the little rat’s maddening self-control, and all it took were threats to his loved ones. Lotho looked down at the little Took, who was staring back defiantly even as he clung to Frodo. Those two dirt-grubbing Gamgees were standing nearby, but they knew they couldn’t interfere in this matter between their betters. It amused Lotho to see young Samwise shaking his head, hands balled into fists, the knuckles white. Halfred was leaning down, speaking urgently into his ear, and after hesitating a moment longer, Samwise turned and ran off down the lane.

Lotho took another step forward, leaving Ted and Fatty in the shadow of the scraggly trees. He looked at the little Brandybuck snot and admired the red handprint marring the smooth young face. Fatty had looked almost shocked when Lotho hit Merry, and he knew he would get grief for that one. Not from Fatty, of course, but Lobelia would be beside herself to know that he had struck the grandson of the Master of Buckland. Queer the Bucklanders might be, but power was power, and important folks were not to be offended.

But the old nag would get over it. Lotho was going to have his fun, and that was all that mattered.

“Raised by trolls?” Lotho mocked. “All those books you read and that’s the best you’ve got?”

Frodo looked around uneasily. It was late in the afternoon, but the heat was still unbearable. The tween couldn’t think. He looked over at Fatty, who wouldn’t meet his gaze. Frodo looked away too; he didn’t like to look at his and Folco’s childhood friend and remember that Fatty preferred the company of Lotho now.

“Let’s go,” Frodo said thickly, reaching out to grasp Merry’s shoulder.

With Pippin, they turned to walk away. Lotho started after them, angry that these rats would dismiss him so casually. His fingers clenched into a fist when he felt a hand on his sleeve restraining him. Lotho turned back with a snarl to see Fatty’s deeply frowning face.

“Forget it,” Fatty said clearly.

Lotho paused in surprise before furiously jerking his sleeve out of Fatty’s grasp and shoving the younger hobbit away from him. “When did you grow a backbone?” Lotho growled. It was unlike Fatty to talk back, and Lotho found he didn’t care for it at all.

Fatty stumbled back a step but did not subside into his usual respectful silence. “They’re just little sprouts,” he added, “and Frodo’s never done you harm.”

This made Lotho see red. He was indifferent to the younger two, but Frodo was the cause of all his family’s problems and deserved whatever Lotho could dish out. He advanced on Fatty, the rotten turncoat.

“You take that back,” Lotho said dangerously. “You take that back or I’ll pound your ugly face in.”

Fatty looked frightened but didn’t back down. “No,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “I’m through toadying to you.” Fatty’s plump face was growing very red.

“You’ll regret that, Fredegar,” Lotho said quietly, stung and furious. “Such a shame. And your father so wanted us to be friends!” Lotho saw that Frodo had not used his opportunity to flee, and had heard the entire exchange with Fatty. The knowledge that his old nemesis had witnessed his humiliation caused Lotho’s rage to boil over. “You’ll regret crossing me, both of you!” Lotho’s shout echoed oddly off the deserted shops.

“Ted!” Lotho snapped. “Hold that one.”

Ted grinned and easily seized Fatty by the arms as Lotho made straight for Frodo.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Halfred stir from where he had been standing near Ted, but Lotho didn’t concern himself; Ted could handle him. Ted, like Fatty, had once been… reluctant to go along with Lotho’s wishes. That had been several years ago, but a few sweet words and sweeter coins had bought back his loyalty. Ted was weak, and Lotho wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I’ll just have to teach two rats a lesson today,” Lotho smirked at Fatty as he advanced on Frodo. To his surprise, Frodo didn’t move even now. In fact, the younger hobbit seemed to be swaying on his feet. Lotho noted with amusement that his cousin’s fair skin held an unnatural pink flush, but he didn’t care if Frodo had had too much sun. He always preferred his targets to stand still anyway.

Those unnatural blue eyes finally focused on Lotho as the older hobbit grinned at Frodo from inches away. They were almost the same height, but Frodo was much more slender. Lotho was going to enjoy this; his fists had been itching to pound something all day. Frodo’s eyes widened as he sensed Lotho’s malice, and he firmly unhooked Pippin’s arms from around his waist and pushed the child toward Merry.

Lotho grinned and grasped Frodo by the front of his shirt, twisting the material harshly. Frodo shoved Lotho in the chest and tried to step back, but Lotho held firm.

“You’re weak,” Lotho taunted in a low voice, for Frodo’s ears only. Much as he relished the moment, Lotho decided he should hurry things along. He could hear Halfred and Fatty struggling with Ted, and Merry looked ready to rush Lotho at any moment. Not that the pipsqueak could do him any harm, but he didn’t need the distraction. Lotho tightened his grip on Frodo’s shirt and clenched his other fist. “Weak and pathetic,” Lotho repeated. “I’m ashamed we’re related.” He would hit hard and fast, and hopefully mess up that pretty face he so despised.

Something hardened in Frodo’s eyes. “So am I,” he ground out.

Lotho realized belatedly that Frodo was not as weakened by the heat as he had seemed at first. His next thought was that perhaps he had made Frodo a little too angry by striking Merry. Then there was only white-hot pain as Frodo’s heel connected forcefully with Lotho’s knee.

Lotho howled in agony as his leg buckled beneath him. He couldn’t hold onto Frodo, but he managed to stay upright despite the searing pain radiating from his kneecap. Before Frodo could recover his balance, Lotho lashed out with his fists, intending to make the rat regret the day he was born.

None of his blows landed, however, as several things seemed to happen all at once. Halfred managed to hit Ted squarely on the jaw, for one thing, and Lotho’s thickset lackey fell on his rump, dazed. Halfred, Fatty, and Merry all rushed toward Lotho and Frodo at the same time, but Pippin had beaten them all there.

“Don’t you hurt my Cousin Frodo!” Pippin shouted from somewhere near Lotho’s feet. Small, eight-year-old hands wound themselves tightly around Lotho’s calf, and an incomplete set of sharp little teeth chomped down hard on Lotho’s ankle.

Pippin didn’t break the skin, although he was trying his hardest, but the abrupt pain was enough to distract Lotho from his attack on Frodo. Lotho stared at the ring of angry faces surrounding him. Ted was slowly getting up from the grass, rubbing his jaw gingerly. Frodo seemed to have expended his remaining energy in that one well-placed kick, and his eyes fluttered closed as the tween swayed unsteadily under the hot sun, his slightly parted lips cracked and dry.

Lotho almost went for him again, knowing it would only take one blow to lay out his younger cousin. But footsteps approaching around the corner made him hesitate. When he saw young Samwise striding angrily toward him, with his dirt-grubbing father and what looked like Saradoc Brandybuck close on his heels, Lotho knew a hasty retreat was in order. He spat on the ground, having no words to express his feelings, and limped away as fast as he could with his injured knee.

Everyone rushed to meet Hamfast Gamgee and Saradoc, except for Merry. The young Brandybuck was the first to realize something was very wrong with his cousin.

“Frodo!” Merry cried, bringing the others up short. He rushed to his cousin’s side and put an arm around Frodo’s waist, steadying him. “You’re ill!”

“I’m all right... Merry...”

Halfred came to his other side, followed soon after by Sam, who had run on ahead of his Gaffer and Saradoc. “I couldn’t find Mr. Bilbo,” the sandy-haired lad explained, peering anxiously up at Frodo.

“Don’t worry about it, Sam-lad, you did just fine,” Halfred said hastily. “Come along, Mr. Frodo, you’re fair burnin’ up. Let’s get ye back to your room and out o’ this heat.” He slipped an arm around Frodo’s shoulders and steered him toward the rapidly approaching adults.

“What happened here, lads?” Saradoc asked sharply. Ted had gotten himself upright at last, and with a last dirty look at Halfred, ran off after Lotho. Fatty stood where he was, and the others ignored him.

“Lotho hit Merry!” Pippin exclaimed, anxious to tell the story. “An’ Cousin Frodo was real mad.”

“I’m sorry,” Frodo murmured. “I should have stopped him. I should have gotten there in time for Merry. I couldn’t...”

“I’m all right, Father,” Merry supplied when Saradoc cupped his face, touching the slowly-fading red mark. “It was Frodo he wanted to meddle with, not me. But something’s wrong, he’s ill I think.”

Saradoc peered at Frodo with concern and felt his hot, dry skin. “Too much sun and not enough water, I should say. Let’s get you inside, boy.” Saradoc smiled kindly at Frodo to disguise his worry. The lad didn’t look well at all. This oppressive heat had taken its toll on a number of Fairgoers, and Frodo was clearly its latest casualty. He raised his eyes to see a young Bolger, Fatty, standing awkwardly nearby. “Fredegar, would you be so good as to find a healer?”

“O-of course,” Fatty stammered. The other lads looked at him without malice, but too uncertain of him yet to be friendly. Fatty fled toward the market square.

Saradoc cast another worried glance at Frodo and led the small procession toward the Warbling Turtle Inn, where most of them were lodged. Pippin was too young to tell the tale in any comprehensible way, but Saradoc was able to draw the sequence of events out of Halfred Gamgee, with a few promptings from the Gaffer. The latter had stationed himself directly behind Frodo and seemed to be expecting the boy to collapse at any moment, he was watching him so keenly.

Saradoc was touched by the stern old gardener’s loyalty, and this reminded him of young Samwise’s urgency when he’d come upon Saradoc in the tearoom with Esmeralda. “That Lotho is makin’ trouble for your son, sir, and Mr. Frodo,” Sam had said, and his worried face had told Saradoc that adult interference would likely be necessary. Of course, Lotho himself was not even a tween any longer; he was clearly out of control.

“That Lotho is on a bad road,” Saradoc said darkly, squeezing Merry’s shoulder protectively. “He must be checked, and his parents are clearly not up to the task.” He was furious that Lotho had struck his son, and even more furious that he had used Merry to get a reaction out of Frodo, for Saradoc knew the history there and could piece the puzzle together easily enough.

“Aye,” Hamfast agreed grimly, keeping his eyes on Frodo’s erratic gait as he stumbled along, supported by Halfred and Sam. “That one’ll come to a bad end, you mark my words.”

Frodo tried not to squint as he stumbled along. He was grateful for Halfred’s strong arm about his shoulders, and Sam’s about his waist, for all he wanted to do was lay down on the parched earth and rest. His mind wasn’t so addled by the heat that he didn’t know that was a very bad idea, however. He had been out in the hot sun all day, and all day yesterday, and he had had scarcely anything to drink, much to his chagrin. They had all been warned repeatedly about the illnesses brought about by heat and thirst, and Frodo had been so caught up in the fun and excitement of the Fair, he hadn’t taken heed.

He supposed it wasn’t too serious, since he was still standing, but Frodo felt awful. His head seemed to pound rapidly in time with his pulse, and he was dreadfully dizzy.

“Almost there, Mr. Frodo,” the Gaffer’s gruff voice said behind him.

Frodo heard Saradoc say that Bilbo was probably back at the Warbling Turtle by now, and realized they were indeed almost there. The inn’s sign was glinting with painful brightness just ahead.

With a few more angry mutterings about Lotho’s disgraceful behaviour, Saradoc opened the door to the inn. Frodo felt another twinge of conscience, wishing he had gotten to Lotho before he struck Merry, or better yet, that he had not left the younger lads outside by themselves at all. He wouldn’t blame Saradoc for being angry; he had shown himself to be a rather pitiful guardian for Saradoc’s son.

The tween sighed in relief as he entered the cool main room of the Warbling Turtle. The darkness was such a sharp contrast with the late afternoon sun outside that at first Frodo couldn’t see anything, and the dizziness increased such that he had to clutch at Halfred’s broad shoulder.

“Frodo-lad!” One of the dark shapes at the bar detached itself and came forward. “Saradoc? What—”

Frodo recognized Bilbo’s voice. He left Halfred’s supporting hands and stepped towards his uncle a little too quickly. The room pitched and tilted crazily, and Frodo’s vision began to tunnel. He had a brief glimpse of dusty floorboards rushing up to meet him, but instead of the anticipated impact with the hard surface, he slumped into a broad, soft, linen-covered chest, and arms that closed around him tightly.  Bilbo.

47. Rufo Recommends Rest

“Frodo!” Bilbo cried in surprise as his nephew went limp in his arms.

“Here, sir, the lad’s insensible.” The Gaffer was there, taking some of Frodo’s weight. “Too much heat, and that’s a fact.”

“The doctor is on his way, Bilbo,” Saradoc assured the old hobbit. “Let’s just get him to your room.”

“Yes... yes, quite,” Bilbo muttered, looking down into Frodo’s ashen face resting against his shoulder. The boy’s eyes were still closed, and his breathing was shallow. “Right then, let’s be about it. Come on, Frodo my lad, one foot in front of the other!”

Bilbo motioned to Hamfast, and together they supported Frodo in the direction of the hall. The tween groaned as he was forced to walk again, but his unsteady legs made the necessary motions.

In the suite occupied by the two Bagginses, Merry and Pippin hurried to the curtained-off section to turn down Frodo’s bed, and the Gaffer eased the groggy tween very gently onto it. “There, now, Mr. Frodo,” Hamfast said gruffly. “You just lie quiet and see what the doctor says.”

Merry fluffed up his cousin’s pillow and watched curiously. He didn’t know the Gamgees well, with the exception of Samwise, and he’d always thought Hamfast a rather dour character. He never would have guessed the old gardener had a soft spot for Frodo. He wondered why, and if Frodo knew. In every other interaction he’d witnessed, Hamfast had been just as terse with Frodo as he was with everyone else. Then again, Frodo often told him he was too nosy...

A short knock on the door, and Bilbo opened it to reveal Dr. Rufo Hornblower. The dark-haired girl from the herbalist’s shop came in behind him, carrying a brown leather bag. Fatty Bolger entered last of all, and slouched self-consciously by the door.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Doctor,” Bilbo said graciously, shooing the others away from Frodo’s bed and into their tiny parlour to give the newcomer space.

“Not at all, not at all,” Rufo said pleasantly. “Sounds like yet another case of heat exhaustion. Not often serious, but it is always well to be certain. You have my bag, Jessi? Thank you, my dear.”

Dr. Hornblower took his bag from his assistant, rummaged in it for a moment, and began to unbutton Frodo’s shirt. “Awake now, are you, young fellow?” Rufo asked. “I remember you, but I’ll wager you don’t remember me.” His eyes twinkled.

Frodo looked at him groggily. He had been awake for a few minutes, but the thought of moving was unappealing in the extreme. He still felt nauseous from the walk down the hall. “No,” Frodo croaked, and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I can’t recall.”

Rufo bent his head to listen to his patient’s chest. “Speech is clear. Heartbeat is strong,” he said. “Low-grade fever, dry skin. Any nausea, lad?”

“A little when I was standing,” Frodo admitted. “But I feel much better now, really. I was in the sun too long is all. I didn’t mean to worry everyone...” The tween closed his eyes and swallowed awkwardly.

“We met a number of years ago, in Hobbiton,” Rufo went on as he took Frodo’s wrist in one hand. “You had a rather nasty case of carnelian fever.”

“Oh yes,” Frodo said, although he truly did not feel like speaking anymore. “I remember that. But I’m surprised you do.”

“I have an excellent memory,” Rufo said cheerfully. “Pulse is very rapid, but the patient is lucid,” he added, and wrote something on a scrap of parchment from his bag.

“Is it serious?” Bilbo asked finally, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“Heat exhaustion,” Rufo said promptly. “He’s young and otherwise in fair health. He’ll be all right. Keep him quiet and resting in the dark tonight and tomorrow. Bathe him with cool water every few hours and give him plenty of fluids, now that the nausea has passed. His body is desperately in need of water.”

“All right,” Bilbo stepped forward to shake the doctor’s hand. “Thank you very much.”

Dr. Hornblower and his assistant left, and Bilbo took a deep breath. He realized Frodo was watching him, so he smiled and sat on the edge of Frodo’s bed.

“How are you feeling, lad?” He smoothed the dark curls off Frodo’s hot forehead, as he had done for the last eight years.

“Much better,” Frodo said, and he truly was beginning to feel like himself again. “I’m sorry I frightened you in there...”

Bilbo smiled wryly. “You do keep this old hobbit on his toes, I’ll give you that.” He shook his head. “And I see you still have no more sense than a blockheaded Bracegirdle from Harbottle. What were you all doing out there today? I distinctly recall saying that you should stay where it was cool... You remember that, surely, my boy?” He poured a cup of water from the bedside table and helped Frodo prop himself up to drink it.

“Yes, Uncle, I remember,” Frodo said. He finished the water and allowed his head to drop back onto the cool pillow, not bothering to answer the other question.

“Confounded headstrong tweenagers,” Bilbo muttered. “They never listen, it seems.” The old hobbit rested a hand lightly on Frodo’s bare chest to get his attention. “Listen to me now, boy.” Bilbo leaned forward and waited for the blue eyes to focus on him. “You’re all I’ve got, and I expect you to take proper care of yourself. Understand?”

Frodo nodded wordlessly, and smiled slightly.

“Good.” He glared at the boy for good measure, his mouth twitching slightly. “Now get some sleep, you young whippersnapper. And if you set one toe out of this bed when you should be resting, I’ll tan the hide off you, so help me.”

Frodo raised his eyebrows. Bilbo had never lifted a finger against him, nor had Frodo given him cause to, but Bilbo didn’t often make such threats even in jest. Frodo felt another twinge of conscience; he really ought to have more sense and not worry the old hobbit so. “I’ll be good,” the tween promised with a fond smile, and settled back to sleep. His head was beginning to pound again most dreadfully, and he didn’t think he would have any difficulty keeping that promise.

Bilbo drew the curtains around his sleeping nephew and went into the parlour. He stopped short when he realized that everyone was still here.

“How is he?” Saradoc asked quietly.

Bilbo sighed. “He should recover speedily enough,” he said. “We must make him rest for now.”

Saradoc and Hamfast looked relieved, as did the boys, even Fatty still leaning unobtrusively against the wall.

But Bilbo wasn’t finished yet. “Will someone tell me what you lads were doing out there? There I was, relaxing with a cool drink, when all of you storm in, Frodo about to faint, and the little ones going on about Lotho Sackville-Baggins. Now I demand to know what happened!”

Bilbo glared at them all determinedly, but no one said anything for a moment.

“Lotho hit Merry!” Pippin exclaimed finally. “And Merry didn’t cry. But I did! And Frodo came running... And Ted was gonna hurt Fatty, but Halfred stopped him—and I bit Lotho! But I think Frodo kicking him hurt more... My teeth aren’t very sharp.”

Everyone stared at Pippin as he felt his little teeth in consternation.

“That’s pretty much what happened, Mr. Bilbo,” Halfred said hesitantly. “It were my fault though, leaving the little ones alone. Mr. Frodo only left them outside because of me,” he added miserably.

Merry, Pippin, and Sam all began talking at once, but Saradoc cut them off. “It sounds more like it was all Lotho’s fault, Halfred,” he said mildly.

Hamfast’s expression didn’t change, but he grasped his son’s shoulder reassuringly.

Bilbo nodded in agreement. “Attacking young children in the street, what is that boy coming to?” he exclaimed angrily. “Something must be done...” he said to Saradoc.

“You should’ve seen Frodo, Uncle Bilbo,” Pippin said. “He was just like one of those Elvish heroes in your stories! Running into danger... kicking Lotho...” The eight-year-old’s green eyes were shining worshipfully.

They all smiled at that image, but Merry said, “It’s true, though. And it was strange. Frodo is always so calm and cheerful... I’ve never seen him that angry!”

“I have,” Sam said quietly. His eyes softened as he turned to look at the sleeping tweenager, partially concealed behind a heavy curtain.  He was remembering a time years ago when Frodo had just moved to Hobbiton, and had stood up for an insignificant gardener’s son whom he hardly knew.

“You can’t always tell what folks have inside of them, ready to come out when the need is greatest,” Saradoc said thoughtfully.

No one said anything, and Bilbo finally sank down into an armchair. “Very true,” he said thoughtfully.

“Come on, lads, we’ve seen him safe,” Hamfast muttered, and Halfred and Sam reluctantly preceded him out the door. But the Gaffer paused by Frodo’s bed and took the smooth, pale hand in his own rough one for the briefest of moments. If Bilbo had blinked, he would have missed it. “I’ll be back, sir,” Hamfast said gruffly just before he closed the door behind himself.

The old hobbit smiled slightly. The Gaffer hated to show affection in front of others, even to his own children, but a keen observer could discern those whom he held in esteem. It never failed to astonish Bilbo how Frodo managed to engender such loyalty and affection everywhere he went.

“Time we were away, too, I suppose,” Saradoc sighed, smiling at Merry and Pippin. “Esme will be wondering where we are, and I promised to get this little fellow back to his parents as well.”

“Aww, can’t we stay, Dad?” Merry protested, and Pippin nodded vigorously.

“No,” Saradoc said firmly. “Besides, it’s almost supper time. You lads missed your tea; I’d hate to see you miss supper as well.”

Merry and Pippin looked at each other in astonishment. “We missed tea?” Pippin exclaimed, crestfallen.

Merry grinned and turned to Frodo. “We’ll return after supper,” he promised his sleeping cousin. He looked around to see where Fatty had gone to, but he had apparently left without anyone noticing.

When Frodo awoke, it was darker outside, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. The air was cooler, but his head ached worse than ever. Frodo shifted restlessly and kicked at the sheet covering his body. He was wearing his nightshirt now, but his skin felt hot and clammy all over. He tried to swallow and wound up coughing instead, his throat painfully dry.

A damp rag stroked his face lightly, then his neck.

“There now, drink some of this,” Bilbo’s voice said softly from the darkness. A flame flickered into existence as Bilbo hastily lit a candle and placed it beside the bed. He slipped an arm beneath Frodo’s shoulders and propped him up a little.

Frodo accepted the cup gratefully and sipped desperately at the contents.

Bilbo didn’t say anything until Frodo had finished. “Better?” he asked.

Frodo nodded, then tried to clear his throat. “Yes,” he said hoarsely.

Bilbo laid him back down and felt his forehead. Frodo could see his frown in the flickering candle light.

“Bilbo?” he asked after a moment. “What’s wrong? Why do I feel so wretched?”

Bilbo squeezed his arm reassuringly. “You’re still burning up. The doctor said it would take at least a day to replace all the water your body is missing. We must be patient, my boy.”

Frodo sighed and tried to relax. “All right,” he said. “What time is it?”

“After nine o’clock,” Bilbo said just as someone knocked softly on the door. “Hm! That must be Hamfast. He and I will prepare a cool bath for you, Frodo.” The old hobbit got up to answer the door, but the visitor was unexpected.

“Fredegar?” Bilbo said. “I’m sorry, Frodo is unwell still. Perhaps if you came back tomorrow...”

“Just a few minutes, Mr. Baggins? Please.”

“Hm.” Bilbo walked back to Frodo’s side. “What about it, lad,” he said quietly. “Feel up to a few minutes’ visit?”

Frodo didn’t feel up to much of anything, but he wasn’t quite so wretched with that cup of water in him. And he really wanted to talk to Fatty, after today. “Yes, please,” he said.

“All right,” Bilbo said, opening the door for the visitor. “I’m going to speak with Hamfast, and then I’ll return in a few minutes when your bath is ready.”

Frodo nodded. Fatty came in and Bilbo closed the door as Frodo struggled into a sitting position. It felt like he hadn’t moved in a week. Frodo tried to focus on his old friend, which was difficult as the room kept swaying dizzily before him.

“Are you... are you all right, Frodo?”

“Yes, just give me a minute,” Frodo said. He felt sure he would feel better once the room stopped moving. “Please, come sit over here where I can see you.” He gestured to the chair beside his bed, but Fatty continued to stand against the far wall. Frodo dropped his hand slowly.

Fatty cleared his throat and got straight to the point, as usual. “I’m sorry, Frodo,” the plump tween said quietly. “I’m sorry I went along with my dad and stayed away from you and Folco. I wish I was strong like you, but I’m not.”

Frodo gave up trying to keep Fatty in his field of view and lay back to stare at the ceiling instead. “You were strong today,” Frodo reminded him. “You showed your true colours when it counted.”

“You and Folco were the best friends I ever had,” Fatty said wistfully. “And look at all the years that have been thrown away, because of me.”

“That’s all right,” Frodo replied. “We’ve plenty of years ahead of us to make up for it.”

Fatty looked at him. “I hope Folco is as forgiving, Frodo.”

Frodo closed his eyes again, but his lips twitched into a smile. “He’ll be thrilled; he always knew you’d come around.” Frodo opened his eyes long enough to see that the ceiling was still tilting crazily and let out a deep breath, wishing he didn’t feel so dreadful.

Frodo heard Fatty finally shift himself away from the wall. Quiet footsteps brought him to Frodo’s bedside.

“I should go,” Fatty said, and reached out hesitantly to take Frodo’s limp hand. “Feel better, my friend.”

The slight pressure left his hand, and Frodo opened his eyes to see Fatty had gone. Frodo dropped his head back into his pillow and smiled slightly. He couldn’t wait to tell Folco about this.

48. Disorientation

Frodo woke to a hand shaking his shoulder gently.

“Your bath is ready, Mr. Frodo,” a voice said. “Time we were about it, eh?”

“No, thank you,” Frodo tried to say, but it came out more as a groan. The thought of bestirring himself didn’t sit well with his sluggish mind.

“None o’ that, now. Even my Samwise takes his bath when called.”

The light blanket was drawn back and Frodo opened his eyes reluctantly, mentally cursing Gamgee stubbornness.

“That’s it, lad. Up we get. Master Baggins will be back in a moment, and I told him I’d have ye in the bath.” Without further ado, the Gaffer reached under Frodo’s arms and lifted the groggy tween into a sitting position.

Frodo had swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up with Hamfast’s help before the nausea began to build. He made himself take two steps toward the parlour, where a wooden bath had been set up. He didn’t want Hamfast to see him in this state at all; the least he could do was walk a few steps without succumbing to his weakness.

Frodo took one more step and could stand it no more. He clutched his abdomen, making a noise of distress.

“Easy, lad, easy,” the Gaffer muttered, grasping his arm to steady him. “Maybe lay down another few minutes. Let’s get ye back to bed.”

“Too far,” Frodo grunted, and sank down to the floor where he was. His empty gut tightened painfully and he doubled over, desperately wishing not to disgrace himself.

“Deep breaths, Mr. Frodo,” Hamfast said gruffly, patting Frodo’s back. “Just lie still and quiet. It’ll pass soon enough.”

Frodo curled up on the hard floorboards and tried to slow his gasping breaths. The Gaffer remained by his side, saying nothing, for he was a hobbit of few words, but he continued to rub Frodo’s back soothingly.

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and waited an eternity before the agony eased.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, but the Gaffer said nothing until he sat up on his own.

“Ready?”

Frodo nodded and Hamfast helped him to his feet. They walked the rest of the way to the bath at a much slower pace, and Frodo’s stomach did not rebel again.

Hamfast guided the tween onto a chair just as the door opened and Bilbo came in.

Frodo almost smiled at the look of relief on the old gardener’s face. He supposed Hamfast had been wondering if he would have to help Frodo undress, too.

“Excellent, you’re up!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Thank you kindly, Master Hamfast.”

The Gaffer nodded and left them alone, and Bilbo soon had his ward settled in the bath. Frodo was too disoriented to be awkward, or to notice if Bilbo found the situation awkward. The cool water was a relief; he was drenched in sweat after the walk from his bed.

“There, now,” Bilbo said in satisfaction. “You just sit there for awhile and cool off.”

Frodo relaxed against the back of the tub and closed his eyes. The water felt delightful, and he sank down a little further.

Distantly, he heard a voice shout “Hamfast!” It sounded like Bilbo, although Frodo had never heard the old hobbit raise his voice so.

Frodo woke to brightness. He opened his eyes and squinted against the morning light filtering in around the shutters. He felt a nameless panic when he realized he was alone, but it passed.

He sat up slowly, noticing that the dizziness had lessened, and looked around. An open book on the bureau revealed that Bilbo had occupied the nearby chair recently. The tween frowned, trying to recall how he had gotten back to his bed—was that last night?

He gave up trying to sort out his fuzzy memories and poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher beside his bed. He drank it thirstily, then lay back down and allowed his thoughts to drift.

Frodo woke to a soft warmth at his side. He opened his eyes in surprise and turned his head to see two green eyes looking back at him solemnly.

Pippin smiled and put a finger to his lips. “I’m hiding,” he whispered.

“Are you indeed,” Frodo whispered back.

“Merry will never find me in here,” the eight-year-old added confidentially.

Frodo thought privately that his little cousin might be underestimating the resourcefulness of a Brandybuck, but he said nothing. Pippin snuggled closer and Frodo put his arm around the small shoulders.

Frodo woke to whispering.

“You’re not supposed to be in here, Pip!”

“I wanted to see Cousin Frodo.”

An impatient sigh. “Pippin… I know. Let’s just go now before we wake him up, or worse, my dad catches us in here.”

The bed shifted, and then there was only silence. Frodo turned onto his side, lying in the now-empty patch of warmth.

Frodo woke to a creeeeaak.

“Shh! You’ll wake him!”

“Sorry—I didn’t think that hinge would be so loud. I’ll close it more softly.”

A pause. And then, from much closer, “Poor fellow. I can feel how hot he is from here.”

“And he won’t even get to enjoy the end of the Fair. Such a shame!”

“We’ll all be back in Hobbiton in a few days, and then we can make it up to him.”

“An excellent plan, Fatty. We should get going ourselves, if we don’t want to miss the fun.”

“I suppose… but I feel almost guilty enjoying it without him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll want to hear all about it when he wakes up. Where’s the guilt in that?”

A sigh. “I expect I’d feel guilty in any case, Folco.”

“Oh, don’t be tiresome.”

“Well, I followed his worst enemy around for years! How would you feel?”

“I hope I never find out.”

“And you, too… I was most unkind.”

“If Frodo can forgive and forget, then I certainly can too.”

Frodo felt he should open his eyes and say something, but the message wouldn’t reach his muscles. And he couldn’t recall what he wanted to say, anyway.

“Oh! I saw him move. I’m afraid we’re disturbing him…”

“We got to see him, anyway. Rest well, my friend.”

A hand grasped his arm for a fleeting moment, and then the hinge creaked again.

Frodo was running through the winding corridors of Bag End.

“Bilbo?” he called.

“I’m sorry!” a distant voice replied from far ahead. “I must go. There are things I must do.”

“No!” Frodo screamed.

“Don’t hold me back, Frodo.” The voice was more distant now, and it held a note of warning.

Frodo ran even harder, but the hallway just kept winding around and around. Soon he knew Bilbo was far out of his reach. Frodo kept running anyway, even when the agony rose up to choke his breath.

Frodo woke to hands pulling up his nightshirt. He started to struggle.

“It’s all right, I’m just going to have a listen,” said a soothing voice. It was vaguely familiar.

“Bilbo! Where is Bilbo?” Frodo asked desperately.

“Right here, lad, I’m right here,” Bilbo said quickly, and a hand squeezed his.

“I can’t lose you, too,” Frodo murmured. He felt the hand holding his give a start.

“I’m not going anywhere, Frodo,” Bilbo said. “Well, Doctor?”

“He’s not taking it well… There have been some serious cases, of course, but I’d hoped your boy wouldn’t be one of them.”

Bilbo started to ask something else, and then the voices moved out of range, and Frodo couldn’t hear anything over the throbbing in his head. Someone held a cup to his lips, and he drank.

Frodo woke to nausea. He surged up desperately from the bed and vomited while Esmeralda held him. He couldn’t see Bilbo anywhere. The heat was unbearable.

“There now, lad, it’s all right,” Bilbo said softly, rubbing his back while he sobbed out his distress. He saw Saradoc’s face, and the Gaffer’s too, and then he was being lifted again into the tub of cool water. This time someone kept adding ice-cold well water, until Frodo was shivering. He was too tired to cry anymore.

Later, he found himself back in his bed, wearing a fresh nightshirt. He relaxed when he realized Bilbo was stroking his hair, and Esmeralda’s warm lips kissed his cool forehead.

Frodo woke to silence, but not solitude. It was morning again; he could tell by the light through his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes slowly. Instead of the anticipated throbbing pain, there was only a dull ache. Frodo looked around. The curtain was drawn, cutting off his view of the parlour and Bilbo’s chamber, but the chair by his bed was occupied.

Frodo smiled at the head of sandy curls bent intently over a book. Sam’s face bore a slight frown of concentration, and his lips moved soundlessly as he read the words to himself.

As though he felt Frodo’s gaze upon him, Samwise looked up suddenly. When he realized Frodo was awake, his round face lit up in a huge smile.

“Mr. Frodo!” he exclaimed, then glanced around furtively. “Master Bilbo’s finally takin’ a rest,” he added in a whisper.

“Is he all right?” Frodo asked, concerned.

“There’s nought wrong with him, sir,” Sam replied. “Except worry over you, of course. You gave us all a right scare!”

“I’m sorry for that, Sam,” Frodo admitted. “But I must be on the mend—the room isn’t spinning anymore.”

“Aye,” came the reply. “Your fever broke last night, so they tell me. Your cousins stayed on an extra day to be sure you were safe; they left a few hours back.”

Frodo’s smile faded a little. He wished he had gotten to say good-by.

“And how are you feeling this afternoon, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo asked cheerfully, pulling back the curtain.

Frodo smiled at his uncle. “Hungry,” he said truthfully.

“Wonderful! Just what an old hobbit likes to hear,” Bilbo was saying. “I shall send for something directly.” He smiled and sat on the edge of Frodo’s bed.

They looked at each other for a moment. Bilbo looked exhausted. Frodo felt terrible for making him worry. He wished he hadn’t stayed out so long that day. He wished even more that Lotho would leave him alone, or that he was strong enough to make Lotho think twice about making trouble. “I’m sorry about all this, Bilbo.”

Bilbo raised his brows. “Nonsense!” he said. “One can hardly blame the patient for taking ill.” He regarded the tween curiously. “What’s bothering you, lad?”

Frodo looked away, embarrassed. “Do you—do you think I’m weak, Bilbo?”

The old hobbit looked even more surprised. “I have never thought of you so,” he said slowly. “I don’t think anyone could, who knew you.”

“Thank you, Uncle, but that’s not quite what I meant,” Frodo said quietly. He sighed and looked away. “Lotho has always been bigger and stronger than me. I’ll never be able to hold my own in a fight with him, and he’ll never cease tormenting me.”

Bilbo frowned as he looked at his ward, unsure how to respond. Sometimes he forgot how young the lad was. He had been treating Frodo as an intellectual equal for years now, and he wasn’t even of age yet.

“Nonsense, boy. You’re a Baggins, after all. What more does one need?” Bilbo said with a wink. He continued more seriously, “Lotho may have the brawn, but you’ll always have the brains. Not to mention the heart. Courage and sharp wits have saved more hobbits than muscle ever will, you mark my words.”

Frodo gazed back doubtfully.

“Why, just think of my adventure with the Dwarves,” Bilbo continued. “We weren’t much to look at, and yet we prevailed. What do you think would have happened differently if we’d been five feet tall and strong as ponies?”

Frodo looked blank. “What?”

Bilbo snorted. “Nothing, of course. The trolls could have squashed us just as easily. No matter how big you are, there’s always someone bigger.”

“I thought Gandalf had something to do with that,” Frodo said innocently.

“Well, I—you’re missing the point, you rascal!”

Frodo laughed. “No, I didn’t miss it, Bilbo, thank you.”

Bilbo turned serious. “Don’t let Lotho under your skin, Frodo-lad. He knows well enough his physical strength will never get him what he really wants, and that has made him bitter.” Bilbo got to his feet.

Frodo scanned Bilbo’s face, feeling ashamed of the fear that awoke in his mind when he thought of a distant voice in a dream, and the childish need to cling. He smiled finally. “I do love you, Bilbo,” he said softly, as the old hobbit was about to open the door.

Bilbo looked startled, and then pleased. “Let me get you some food, dear boy,” he said, and went out quietly.

Three weeks later…

“I will say… Willow Loamsdown!”

“That’s cheating! Isn’t that cheating, Frodo? You can’t name a lass whom you’re already courting,” insisted Fatty.

“I think that is cheating,” Frodo confirmed, nodding.

“I don’t care,” Folco said, and took a large swig of his ale.

“Cheater!” Fatty cried dramatically. “Spit that back out! You lose a turn.”

“Too late,” Folco grinned to show he’d already swallowed. “Your turn, Frodo.”

“All right,” Frodo said slowly, racking his memory for a girl’s name that hadn’t been used yet. “How about… Celosia Boffin.”

Fatty burst out laughing as Frodo drank deep of his own ale.

“How dare you mention my sister’s name, you cad!” Folco exclaimed in mock indignation. “I was going to use her,” he muttered as an afterthought.

“Fatty again,” Frodo said cheerfully.

“Very well,” Fatty said. “Er… what’s your other sister’s name, Folco?”

Frodo sputtered into his ale as Folco punched Fatty’s shoulder. “Just for that, I’m drinking the rest of your ale,” Folco said, and did so.

“Well, we’ve named just about every unmarried tween girl in Hobbiton,” Fatty protested.

“You’re probably right,” Folco sighed. “I should be getting home, anyway.”

They paid their bill at the Green Dragon and parted company.

Frodo took a few deep breaths of fresh air to clear his head. Tweenage drinking games were a fun way to pass a lazy afternoon, but Fatty and Folco had invited him out nearly every day since they had returned from the Fair. It was wonderful that the three of them were friends again, but Frodo had forgotten how Folco and Fatty liked to gang up on him and cajole him into drinking more than he ought.

Thus, when Frodo got home and settled in his favourite chair in the parlour, the sound of the door bell didn’t really register.

The bell cord was pulled again, and Frodo heard Bilbo call distractedly from his study, “Frodo! Are you out there? Answer the door, if you please.”

Frodo sighed and sat up. “I’ve got it, Uncle,” he called back, and walked into the foyer. He didn’t think they were expecting anyone. His eyes widened when he finally got the door open.

Bilbo had received visits from some peculiar characters over the decades, though not as many as the good residents of Hobbiton might suppose. But Frodo had met none of them in the years since he had come to live in Bag End. Save for Gandalf, of course.

Frodo hesitantly cleared his throat. He had never seen a Dwarf before, but he felt quite certain that these two were Dwarves. Their travelling hoods could not conceal their enormous beards, and they could not be much taller than Frodo himself. They wore dark, bulky clothes and strong boots, despite the balmy early September weather. One was much older and the other was much younger, but they were both staring at him expectantly.

“Good day,” Frodo greeted them, swallowing his surprise.

“Good day!” boomed the older one. His black beard was laced with silver. “Would this be the residence of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, by chance?”

“Yes—yes it is. Won’t you come in?” Frodo stepped back so they could pass.

The older one entered first, and Frodo couldn’t help but notice his air of authority. Frodo felt quite small and clumsy under his stern gaze. He wondered if this were one of Thorin Oakenshield’s thirteen, who had gone with Bilbo on the Quest of Erebor. But both the Dwarves behaved as if they had never been here before. The younger one seemed too young to have gone on that quest, and he looked around the entranceway with undisguised interest.

“You are not Master Baggins… are you?” Silver Beard asked, looking Frodo up and down doubtfully.

“My name is Frodo Baggins,” Frodo said as he ushered them into the parlour. “Bilbo is my cousin. May I tell him who is calling?”

Silver Beard gave him a short bow from the neck. “I am Gróin, son of Náin. My companion is my great-nephew, Rorin, son of Dwalin.”

Frodo returned the bow numbly. “I—I’ll just fetch Bilbo. Please, make yourselves comfortable.” He hastened to Bilbo’s study, heart racing with excitement. He didn’t know the name of either Dwarf, but he recognized both their fathers. Dwalin was one of the Thirteen, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Náin was King Náin II. Exalted company indeed. Whatever did they want with Bilbo?

Frodo knocked lightly on the study door and entered. “Bilbo!” he said excitedly.

Bilbo turned from his desk and frowned at his nephew. “Whatever is the matter, boy? Your cheeks are all flushed!”

“You’ll never guess who is here!”

“Good heavens!” Bilbo exclaimed when Frodo told him. “How peculiar. Well… well, let’s not keep them waiting, Frodo-lad. Run to the kitchen and make a tray of sandwiches. I’ll see what this is all about.”

49. Helping Old Friends

Gróin, son of King Náin II, sank into the cushioned chair with a grunt. His young companion was looking around with undisguised interest.

“This is a Hobbit hole?” Rorin said.

Gróin knew what Rorin was thinking. Neither had much experience with the hole-dwellers, and hadn’t envisioned something quite this refined. “You just mind your manners, if you want to be of any use to your father.”

“Fear not,” Rorin said dryly. “It has been many a year since I have needed such warning.”

Gróin chuckled, despite the grimness of their errand. A rough, raspy sound he made. He was quite old. Too old for such adventures, really. But Rorin had organized everything, and others would be going, at Gróin’s insistence. Rorin could be as impetuous as his father, it seemed. Gróin had been surprised the boy wanted him along, in fact. He was forever forgetting that his great-nephew was an intelligent and capable adult, a lapse which irritated Rorin exceedingly.

But when you got right down to it, Gróin was glad Rorin had asked him to come. Dwalin had always been his favourite nephew; bright and dazzling as mithril, he could be. And he exhibited about as much sense at times, too. And of course, there was a more personal reason for Gróin to desire the safe return of Dwalin’s party.

A hobbit entered the parlour at that moment. “I am Bilbo Baggins,” he said politely. “Welcome to Bag End.” Gróin studied him from beneath bushy grey brows. This small, portly fellow had fought bravely beside Dwalin, Balin, Glóin, and all the others? He didn’t look quite old enough to have gone on the famed Quest of Erebor, but he was certainly a likelier candidate than the child who had answered the door.

“Thank you,” said Rorin after the two Dwarves had introduced themselves once more. “We come in search of aid. My father, Dwalin, is in peril. I understand you were friends?”

“Yes, yes, oh dear!” Bilbo exclaimed, his expression turning from polite bewilderment to concern. “I’ll do anything I can to help, of course. What has happened?”

“My nephew has gone on a most ill advised mission,” Gróin explained, resting his hands on the tiny arms of his chair. “He can be a stubborn fool, especially where his brother is concerned.  We caught up with him in Mirkwood, but he would not abandon his plan.  We want to go after him again, you see, and bring him back.  Rorin thinks, and I agree, that you have the best chance of making Dwalin listen to reason.”

“My father always spoke so highly of his companions on the Quest of Erebor, you see, and there are so few of you left... We hoped you would help us.” Rorin added.

“I see,” the hobbit said, eyeing them keenly. “I harbour great loyalty for the thirteen, of course, and I will certainly help you if I can. But I sense there is more than you are telling me. For one thing, you mentioned Dwalin’s brother. If you are referring to Balin, what has he to do with all of this? And where exactly did they set off to, and why?”

Gróin smiled grimly. The hobbit was sharp indeed. But before he could begin to explain further, they were interrupted by the entrance of the younger hobbit, holding a food-laden tray.

“I do apologize,” Bilbo said at once. “Where are my manners? You must be exhausted and hungry after your long journey. Questions and answers can wait for later. You must have some refreshment, and we will make up beds for you to spend the night. You can’t be thinking of leaving sooner than tomorrow, surely?”

Both dwarves inclined their heads as Bilbo helped Frodo to set the tray on the table between them.

“Thank you, that is most kind,” Gróin said. “We will stay until tomorrow, but no later.  They are forced to move slowly by all that they carry with them, but we will have to move quickly to head them off.”

Bilbo nodded, then hesitated, looking at the younger hobbit. Frodo, Gróin recalled. “Very well. I will hear the rest of your story tonight, and then decide what to do.”

Gróin studied Frodo again. He was quite young... He did not know how hobbits reckoned their years, but Frodo looked to be not past mid-adolescence. He supposed Bilbo was hesitant to leave him on his own for an undetermined length of time, or needed time to make arrangements for the boy.

“That is acceptable,” Gróin said. He could sympathize, but he hoped the hobbit would not let his responsibilities prevent him from coming to his old friends’ aid.

Frodo sat quietly eating his sandwich and listening. He was every bit as interested as Bilbo looked, but he refrained from speaking in case it drew Bilbo’s attention. Bilbo hadn’t said he couldn’t listen, but Frodo suspected this was a conversation he was not meant to be party to.

He knew as much Dwarfish history as Bilbo could teach him, and he recognized the place they kept mentioning. Moria. Originally Khazad-dûm, ancestral home of the dwarves, going back to Durin the Deathless before the First Age. Deserted a thousand years ago, by all accounts.

But no longer, according to Gróin and Rorin. Ten years ago, they reported, Bilbo’s old companion Balin had gone forth to recolonize the ancient city. Reports of his success made their way back to Erebor every year or two. But the last report had been received five years ago, and there was no word since.

“This summer, my father decided he could wait no longer,” Rorin was saying. “The messenger sent out from Erebor never returned, and he decided to go himself. We all told him it was too dangerous, but he always was close to Uncle Balin.”

“And so you want to try and bring him back,” Bilbo said.

“I have a personal stake in this as well,” Gróin admitted slowly. “Glóin, my own son, was one of Dwalin’s party. I do not wish to lose two sons.”

“Two?” Frodo questioned, forgetting that he had meant to keep quiet.

Gróin fixed his gaze on the tweenager. “Aye, two,” he said somberly.

“My cousin Óin went with the first party, with Balin,” Rorin explained.

Frodo nodded, and looked at Bilbo. He could tell even now that the old hobbit was eager to go, imagining the open road under his tough soles, aching to leave the Shire. Frodo himself found the prospect rather exciting, he had to admit. Bilbo had always spoken fondly of the things he had seen and done outside these familiar lands, but especially so these last few years. Frodo knew his uncle’s feet itched to go, and of course he had to go, if his old friends needed him. There was only one, more difficult, question to settle.

Later that night, the dwarves had gone to bed, and Bilbo was packing. He fingered the ring in his pocket, lost in thought for a moment. He was worried for his old friends, of course, and naturally he must go to their aid, but it felt queer to be leaving so abruptly, after all these years leading a relatively quiet life.

It wasn’t at all fair to Frodo, and yet the dear boy had been remarkably unflappable. Excited, even. Bilbo snorted softly to himself. Frodo probably harboured some youthful anticipation of Bilbo having new tales of new adventures to relate upon his return. He was too young to give much thought to the dangers Bilbo might face on this errand, of course, and Bilbo much preferred it that way. No sense in the lad worrying, after all.

And really, there was no reason for Bilbo to worry, either. Frodo had stayed plenty of times on his own for brief periods. He would be of age in a few years, for goodness sake, and certainly was responsible enough to look after himself. It went without saying that the Gamgees would keep an eye on the boy, of course, and if he was gone longer than expected, Frodo could always go and stay with his Buckland or Tookland relations.

As though Bilbo’s thoughts had summoned him, Frodo appeared at his side and set down several wrapped bundles.

“I’ve packed the food you wanted, Uncle,” the tween said. “It’s getting late—is there anything else I can do to help?”

Bilbo’s face creased into a smile and he patted Frodo lightly on the cheek. “Thank you, my boy. I’m almost finished. Why don’t you go to bed?”

“I will,” Frodo replied, but he made no move to leave Bilbo’s room.

Bilbo didn’t force the issue, and for several minutes they sat in companionable silence, Bilbo packing the last odds and ends into his traveling case, and Frodo watching from the bed.

“Bilbo?” Frodo’s soft voice broke into Bilbo’s thoughts.

“Yes, lad?” Bilbo said, but received no answer. After a moment he turned away from his packing to face his heir.

“Please, can’t I come with you?” the tween finally burst out.

“Frodo... dear boy, I would like nothing better, you must know that,” Bilbo said, startled, but thinking he should have anticipated this. “But it is simply out of the question.”

“I could be a help to you—I wouldn’t get in the way.” Frodo continued as though he hadn’t heard Bilbo, but he lowered his head as he spoke.

“I know you wouldn’t,” Bilbo said firmly, going to stand before Frodo. “And of course you would be a great help. But this isn’t some lark, you know. I don’t know where we are going or what we will face. I could be gone a fortnight or... or two months. I am responsible for you, boy! How could I in good conscience bring you into such uncertainty and potential danger?”

Sapphire eyes flashed briefly with irritation. “I know it isn’t a lark, Bilbo,” Frodo said, brows drawing together. “I didn’t want to come for the fun of it, you know.”

Bilbo sighed, and almost missed Frodo’s next words.

“I wanted to be there to make certain you come back,” the tween finished quietly, looking away.

“Frodo...” Bilbo sat on the edge of the bed next to his ward and squeezed his shoulder. Predicting how Frodo would feel or react was something Bilbo had often had difficulty with; there was too much going on in that russet-curled head for the lad’s own good. He groped for some way to reassure Frodo, but the fact was he couldn’t promise to be there for the lad always, however he might wish to. The world was a dangerous and unpredictable place.

And this boy had already lost far too much.

Bilbo sighed again, thinking that as much as he enjoyed Frodo’s wit and intelligence, there were times when he would have done better to take a simpleton as his heir.

Frodo’s expression was a mixture of frustration and resignation. Bilbo reached over to the young hands resting in Frodo’s lap, and took them gently in his own. He looked down at their clasped hands for a moment. Smooth, pale fingers, still slender with youth, intersected with broader, square-tipped fingers. Bilbo squeezed the smaller hands in his own, wishing he could protect their owner as easily.

“You should get some rest if you wish to be up early enough to see me off tomorrow,” Bilbo said finally.

Frodo nodded, already having known what Bilbo’s decision would be. “Good night, Uncle,” the tween said, finally favouring the old hobbit with a slight smile. He lifted Bilbo’s hand and placed a kiss on the back of it, and then he was gone.

The sun had barely started to rise the next morning when Bilbo, Gróin, and Rorin set out. Frodo stood, pale and exhausted, in the faint light and waved good-by. He hadn’t slept well, and was woken from a disquieting and vaguely familiar dream when Bilbo came to call him. He did not remember what happened in the dream, but the uneasiness clung to him for several minutes after he woke.

Once Bilbo was out of sight down the road, Frodo turned and went back inside. He still wished Bilbo had let him come, but he felt strangely relaxed now that it was done and Bilbo had gone. There was nothing he could do now but amuse himself for the next few weeks and look forward to the old hobbit’s return. Hopefully with success to report, and good stories to tell.

Frodo started to plan his day as he walked wearily back to his bedroom. He had stayed by himself a number of times, and still enjoyed the novelty of being his own master. The first order of business, of course, was to sleep at least until elevenses. Frodo was not accustomed to rising with the sun, and he was determined that he should follow a more civilized schedule in Bilbo’s absence, starting immediately.

Frodo’s next thought, occurring just as his exhausted head hit his pillow, was that he should go out with Folco and Fatty again this evening, and stay out much later than Bilbo normally permitted.

50. Passing the Time

September 7, 1398

Frodo lifted an edge of the curtain over the kitchen window and peeped furtively out at the garden. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but one never knew. The tiny orange blooms in the nearest flowerbed seemed to glow in the early afternoon sunshine, and the longer grass at the path borders moved gently in the breeze.

Azure eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was all a little too peaceful. And then he heard it—the distinctive snip snip snip of garden shears. Over near the front door, and getting nearer.

Frodo leaned a little closer to the open window, until he could see the Gaffer’s bent form coming into view. Hamfast straightened up to dispose of the trimmings, and Frodo let the curtain drop back into place. He leaned against the kitchen table with a sigh. It had been seven days since Bilbo’s departure, and the Gaffer was still performing his new duties as diligently as ever.

That morning a week ago, Bilbo had told Frodo he was writing to their cousins in Tookland and in Buckland, and leaving a note for the Gamgees. Frodo had been too groggy to be curious about the contents of that note at the time, but he had wondered about it plenty since.

At first, everything had gone as it normally did when Frodo preferred not to accompany Bilbo on some errand, and chose instead to stay home by himself. Hamfast performed his regular duties, sometimes with Samwise in tow, and knocked on the door before he left every day to see how Frodo was faring and ask if he needed anything. Sometimes Bell would send Samwise or May up with a plate of muffins, if she had been baking. Normally, that was all. And it was enough.

The last several days, however, Hamfast had gone beyond the call of duty, in Frodo’s opinion. Perhaps this was because Frodo had never stayed alone longer than a few days.  Then again, perhaps Frodo should have asked to read what Bilbo had written in that note.

In any case, every time Frodo stepped out the door now, the Gaffer would appear, seemingly rising right out of the hedge sometimes, to ask where he was going, who he would be with, and what time he expected to return. All this was asked very respectfully, of course, this being Hamfast Gamgee, and none of it was anything Bilbo wouldn’t want to know if he were here, but Frodo was rapidly wearying of the scrutiny. He was nearly thirty years old, after all.  Hobbits just a few years older sometimes married, in fact. Waiting until at least the late thirties was far more common, but still.

Frodo, still perched on the edge of the table, heard the dreaded garden shears pass by directly under the kitchen window, and decided he ought to get some fun out of this. The tween straightened out of his slouch and went to Bilbo’s room, on the opposite side of the smial. Also, conveniently, the room with the largest window. He ought to have a good few minutes before the Gaffer and his shears made it this far.

“Sorry, Bilbo,” the tween muttered as he clambered up on his uncle’s bed. He stepped gingerly over the headboard and opened the window. That was one of the many showpieces of Bag End; the finest artisans of Hobbiton had crafted winding green vines and leaves out of stained glass to make this one-of-a-kind window. Frodo took care not to leave dirty smudges on the glass panes as he hoisted himself out through the opening.

He paused awkwardly in the half-in, half-out position. Listening intently, he detected the telltale snip snip over by the vegetable garden. Just around the corner. Frodo began to wriggle the rest of the way out. He tried not to think about how appallingly embarrassing it would be for Hamfast to catch him in this undignified position.

When Frodo was lying mostly on his stomach across the window sill, he peered down at the two holly bushes directly below. “Now or never,” he muttered, envisioning himself gracefully swinging his legs over the sill and dropping noiselessly to the ground between the hollies.

Unfortunately, the tween failed to take his latest growth spurt into account, and wound up with both legs stuck in the window. “Confounded awkward phase!” Frodo said under his breath, exasperated. He tried shifting his weight again, but only whacked his left foot on Bilbo’s window frame.

Snip! Snip!

Frodo estimated that his window of opportunity, no pun intended, was about to close. He redoubled his efforts, wriggling frantically the way one wriggled a wide book from a tight shelf.

At last, at last, when it sounded as if the Gaffer and his well-meaning questions would be upon him any moment, Frodo’s legs came free. The tween shoved off the window ledge, landing clumsily with one foot firmly in the holly, just as Hamfast Gamgee strolled around the corner.

The only happy result of this misadventure, Frodo would decide later, was the expression on Hamfast’s face when he caught sight of the disheveled young master standing in the holly.

Frodo watched the expressions chase themselves across the old gardener’s face. Surprise, confusion, concern, and finally, exasperation. “Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo,” Hamfast said with a polite nod.

“Afternoon, Master Gamgee,” Frodo replied, standing casually, as though he loitered in the shrubbery every day.

“Heading off, then?” the Gaffer said nonchalantly.

“Yes, I’m meeting a friend at the Green Dragon,” Frodo said before Hamfast could ask.

The gardener nodded and reached up to scratch his neck. “Been a week today, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo studied the Gaffer. He wasn’t following their usual pattern of exchange now. “Yes, a week,” the tween said cautiously.

“Will ye be writing to your cousins soon, then? The master never meant ye to stay on your own so long, if you follow me.”

Frodo frowned. “He said if he wasn’t back after a week or two, Master Gamgee, I should consider going to stay in Buckland or Tookland.”

“Aye,” the Gaffer said noncommittally.

“He left it to my discretion,” Frodo added.

Hamfast merely picked up his gardening shears. “T’ain’t my place to tell you otherwise, young master.”

“Thank you for your concern, Master Gamgee,” Frodo said, trying not to feel irritated by the old gardener’s stubbornness. Well, Frodo could be stubborn too. He wanted to stay right where he was. All his things were here, and his friends, and Bilbo’s books. This was his home.

True, he hadn’t seen Merry or Pippin in awhile, but he could do that any time, in theory. It wasn’t every day he got to be Master of Bag End, sole arbiter of his fate, coming and going as he pleased (Hamfast Gamgee notwithstanding, of course).

He knew the Gaffer, and likely Bell as well, didn’t approve of leaving a tweenager to his own devices for a prolonged period of time. But Frodo was certain he could handle it, and determined to prove it.

Frodo got to the gate and made sure to latch it behind him. He sighed absently and picked a stray holly leaf off his trousers.

The tween walked very fast into town, head down, navigating unconsciously through the mid-afternoon crowd of hobbits around the Green Dragon, and perhaps that explained why he didn’t notice the person coming toward him until it was too late.

“Why, Frodo Baggins!”

Frodo’s head jerked up in surprise when the shrill voice exclaimed almost directly in his right ear.

“Where are you off to in such a rush, sweetie?”

“Good day, Mrs. Sackville-Baggins,” Frodo said politely, suppressing the annoyance he felt at yet another delay. Heather might as well give up on him. “I’m bound for the inn,” the tween added, remembering Lobelia’s question.

“Splendid, splendid,” the hawk-nosed lady said. “It is good to see you’re keeping busy... dear.”

“Ah, thank you.” Frodo wasn’t quite sure what to say. Lobelia was being her usual syrupy self to him, as she had been for years now, and Frodo dutifully minded his manners in any encounter with her. He hoped she truly had reformed after her cruelty to him seven years ago. Sometimes she seemed to despise him still, but Frodo was convinced it was just her generally unpleasant manner. Surely no one could hold a grudge for the better part of a decade.

“I’ve heard about Bilbo going off again, you poor thing,” Lobelia cooed solicitously, brushing a bit of dust off the shoulder of his coat. “Any word on the date of his return?”

This last was said casually, but the tone of voice caused Frodo to look at her sharply. Oddly enough, most of the conversations around them had paused as well, and Frodo became aware that the hobbits around the door of the inn were watching curiously.

“No,” Frodo said at last, seeing no reason to lie. “I do not know. He could return at any time, I suppose.”

Lobelia was watching him carefully, and seemed satisfied by whatever she saw. “Poor dear,” she said in a motherly tone. “Well, if you need anything, anything at all, you tell me immediately, all right... sweetie?”

”Thank you,” Frodo said, staring.

“Well, go on in and find your little friend,” Lobelia prompted with a smile when Frodo showed no sign of moving.

The tween nodded dumbly and pushed the inn’s heavy door open. The hobbits standing nearby resumed their conversations, Lobelia stalked off down the street, and Frodo slipped into the pub.

Once his eyes had adjusted, Frodo quickly spotted his friend at a table along the far wall.

“There you are, Frodo!” Heather Proudfoot exclaimed as Frodo slid into the seat across from her. “The Gaffer didn’t give you too much trouble, I hope?”

“No, not really,” Frodo replied with a smile. “I know he means well. But I ran into Lobelia Sackville-Baggins just outside the door.”

“And was she her usual charming self?” Heather took a sip of her ale.

“I know you’re joking... but she was charming,” Frodo said in exasperation. “I cannot figure her out at all. I fear she must be up to something.”

“She usually is,” Heather agreed.

“I don’t know why everyone is so interested in Bilbo’s affairs,” Frodo went on, shaking his head. “You should have seen how many folks paused to listen when Lobelia spoke to me.”

Heather tucked a lock of curly hair behind one ear and passed her tankard to Frodo. “Bilbo is different, and that makes him interesting,” she said.

“I suppose,” Frodo replied, taking a quick drink.

“It’s true,” Heather persisted, holding Frodo’s gaze. “Most folks find you Hobbiton Bagginses fascinating. You naturally capture attention. Nobody else I know goes on adventures, or knows Dwarfish history, or can speak Elvish.”

Frodo was uncertain whether she was speaking of Bilbo or himself now, and he started to push the ale back toward Heather to cover his confusion.

“No, no, you finish it,” Heather stopped him with a light touch on his wrist. “I wanted tea, anyway. The proprietor confused my order in the afternoon rush.”

Frodo returned her smile and toasted her with the tankard before downing the last bit of ale. “Shall I try again to order tea for you?” he offered.

Heather considered for a moment, then shook her head. “I should be getting on home, I’m afraid. It’s late.”

“Then allow me to see you home,” Frodo said, putting down a few coins for the ale. “I still haven’t asked about your recent stay in Overhill.”

“That would be lovely,” Heather said.

September 15, 1398

“Thank you, Mrs. Gamgee,” Frodo said, accepting the steaming cup gratefully.

“Not at all, Mr. Frodo,” Bell replied, sitting across from him with her own cup of tea. “I’m always happy ta see you, and that’s a fact.”

Frodo smiled and looked down at his tea, because he knew Bell wasn’t just being polite; he didn’t visit often, not wanting to intrude, but she honestly did seem happy to see him. This time, in fact, he had only stopped by to ask Bell for a recipe. Frodo could cook as well as any young hobbit, but after a fortnight on his own, he was rapidly tiring of his small repertoire.

Of course, when Bell had invited him to take tea with her, he hadn’t put up much of a fight. Frodo had always enjoyed spending time with Mrs. Gamgee; he didn’t remember his own mother very well after all these years, but he liked to think she was something like Bell Gamgee. He would never reveal such thoughts to anyone, naturally, but he had no qualms about enjoying Bell’s motherly attentions whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“And how have ye been faring, Mr. Frodo?” Bell interrupted his thoughts.

“Well enough,” Frodo said.

“I expect you miss Mr. Bilbo somethin’ fierce...”

“Yes,” Frodo sighed. There were not many he would admit this to. “And I worry about him.”

Bell reached out toward his hand, then seemed to remember whom she was talking to. She had another sip of tea instead.

Frodo was surprised by the flash of disappointment he felt when Bell withdrew her hand. He supposed he had grown accustomed to Bilbo’s fond touches and affectionate hugs, but surely he was too old now to miss such physical reassurances.

“I can’t say I blame you for worryin’,” Bell said. “But you’d best remember that your uncle can take care o’ himself. Some folks might think him a mite... odd, but I for one wouldn’t doubt his good sense when it counts, if ye follow me.”

Bell refilled Frodo’s cup without asking. “I would say, if ye don’t mind, that Mr. Bilbo wouldn’t like ye to be moping about the place all this time. You’ll be off to stay with your cousins before long, surely?”

Frodo couldn’t bring himself to feel irritated in the face of Bell’s obvious concern. “I... not yet,” the tween said. “Please don’t concern yourself, Mrs. Gamgee,” he added, suddenly anxious that she understand. “I just... this is my home now.”

Bell smiled gently. “Well, you’re nearly of age, Mr. Frodo, and it’s your decision, o’ course. I just hope you’ll remember you have us Gamgees down the Hill, and come to us with any problem, large or small.”

Frodo looked at the proud lady in her plain, well-patched dress, and was moved. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “That means a great deal to me, truly.”

“Oh, sticklebacks,” Bell said briskly, and this time she did give his hand a quick pat.

The front door opened just then, and Daisy Gamgee strode in with Samwise and Marigold in tow.

“Strange goings-on in town today, Ma!” Daisy exclaimed. She walked right past Frodo, who was still sitting quietly at the kitchen table.

“You know I don’t like gossip, love,” Bell said, getting up to take Marigold’s coat. “Don’t wrinkle that, Mari,” she added to the youngest Gamgee.

“I got mud on my skirts, Ma,” Marigold said pitifully.

“You certainly did, love,” Bell sighed.

“Mr. Frodo!” Samwise exclaimed, the first to catch sight of the visitor.

“Hullo,” Frodo said with a smile, politely ignoring the comical sight of Daisy whirling in surprise. “How are you, Sam? I’ve missed you in the garden lately.”

Sam grinned, his round face beaming with honest delight. “I’m well, thankee. My Gaffer says there isn’t much work for me at this time o’ year.”

Bell was steering Marigold to the back room to get the dirt off her dress, and Daisy was still carefully avoiding him, so Frodo took the opportunity to study his young friend. He hadn’t seen much of Sam in the last few weeks, and truthfully, he missed the lad’s cheerful presence.

“Why don’t you come up and visit me sometime, Sam?” Frodo asked impulsively.

“Oh, I’d love to, sir, but I wouldn’t want to be a bother...” Sam glanced at the doorway, clearly imagining what objections his mother might raise.

“You’re never a bother, Sam,” Frodo said firmly. “You’d be doing me a kindness; it gets a little lonely up there by myself, you know.”

Sam’s smile returned. “Tomorrow, Mr. Frodo?”

“With pleasure,” Frodo replied. He saw Daisy fiddling with the kettle out of the corner of his eye, and wondered what sort of news would cause such impatience. “And what happened in town, Daisy?”

The eldest Gamgee daughter came back to the table, clearly delighted to have an audience at last. “You’d never guess such a thing, Mr. Frodo,” she said in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder to be sure Bell had not returned. “There was a fire in Michel Delving, three days back, at the mayor’s office.”

“Oh,” Frodo said in surprise. “I hope no one was hurt?”

“No, no,” Daisy gestured impatiently. “Happened at night, it did. In the records room.”

“I see.” Frodo was puzzled now. Official copies of legal documents were kept in the records room. Marriage certificates, wills, contracts... but any sensible hobbit made more than one copy, if the document was very important. “I suppose someone left a candle burning in there—”

“Well, that’s the interestin’ part, Mr. Frodo!” Daisy whispered excitedly. “They’re sayin’ someone set that fire on purpose.”

Frodo looked at her, aghast. “Why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t rightly know.” Daisy shrugged. “The fire didn’t even destroy very much before it was found and put out. But folks are coming up with the wildest notions about it!”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Frodo said. He had plenty of firsthand experience with the rumours that could be perpetuated by overly curious hobbits.

“I heard Old Flourdumpling set the fire himself, tryin’ to get rid of some record he didn’t want comin’ to light.”

“Daisy-lass, you know better than to spread such stories,” Bell said disapprovingly. “And you’ll regret it if I ever catch you speakin’ of the Mayor that way again. What would your dad say if he heard you talking such nonsense?”

Daisy started guiltily, not having noticed her mother come back in the room. “Sorry, Ma,” she said sheepishly.

Frodo had risen to his feet, realizing he’d stayed longer than he meant to. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Gamgee.”

“Leavin’ already? Well, you come back anytime you like, dear.”

“Thank you.”

“You have those recipes ye wanted?”

“Yes, right here.” Frodo showed her the leaf of parchment on which he’d written her instructions. “I look forward to trying them.”

Bell smiled and nodded as she looked at the paper, although Frodo knew she couldn’t read. “Good. You have yourself a nice evening then, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo wished the same to her, and after quick good-byes to Sam and Daisy, he was walking briskly up the path to Bag End. Dusk had fallen and the windows were dark because he hadn’t thought to leave any lights burning, but Frodo could have found his way home with his eyes closed.

He breathed in the crisp autumn air and firmly squelched a sudden surge of anxiety. “He’s all right,” Frodo said firmly to the silent green door. “He’ll be back soon, you’ll see.”

51. A Strange Summons

The middle of September came and went, and Frodo’s friends began to ask if he would celebrate the birthdays as usual.

“I’ll wait for Bilbo’s return,” Frodo explained patiently. “We always celebrate together.”

And so September twenty-second passed with nothing more to mark it than a picnic supper shared with young Samwise, who couldn’t bear the thought of Frodo hiding away in Bag End on his birthday.

By October, speculation about Bilbo was running rampant in Hobbiton. There were those who began to believe Bilbo was not coming back; that his adventurous side had caught up with him and gotten him killed at last; or, even less kindly, that Mad Baggins was so mad he’d simply decided not to return.

Frodo ignored all such talk, although some things were harder to ignore than others. Bilbo had always been the subject of gossip, after all. And Frodo understood, as few hobbits could, that adventures were unpredictable. Bilbo might well be delayed weeks or even months longer than anticipated, unable to send word but perfectly alive and well. One just never knew with these things.

So Frodo wasn’t really worried about Bilbo’s well-being any more than he had been the first day of his uncle’s absence. He fully expected Bilbo to show up any time, exhausted but full of tales to tell, and ready to reproach Frodo for remaining at Bag End alone all this time.

As for the more farfetched type of gossip, Frodo knew perfectly well that Bilbo was not a madman. In his darker moments, though, he sometimes thought Bilbo might have other reasons not to return to the Shire. He knew his adoption had changed Bilbo’s way of life; Frodo suspected that had it not been for him, Bilbo would have left the Shire for good a long time ago. It didn’t take a wizard to see how Bilbo’s eyes shone with longing when he spoke of things he had seen in the outside world.

But Bilbo wouldn’t leave without telling Frodo, surely. Bilbo had been the only stable force in Frodo’s life for almost twenty years; being abandoned by him now was unthinkable.

So Frodo didn’t allow himself to think it. He went about his business, kept Bag End in good shape, and ignored the wagging tongues.

It was a cool, crisp morning in late October when Frodo was awakened by the door bell.

He threw back the covers with a groan and blearily pulled on his clothes. He was tempted to wonder why someone would disturb him so early, but as he’d been sleeping till elevenses lately, he suspected it really wasn’t as early as it felt.

The round front door opened to reveal a stout young hobbit Frodo did not know.

“Mr. Frodo Baggins?”

Frodo nodded, and the visitor drew an official-looking envelope from his satchel.

“I have a summons for you, from Filibert Bolger.”

Frodo accepted the envelope and went back inside. He opened it in Bilbo’s study and read the contents, frowning. Filibert Bolger was the mayor’s local representative; he attended to matters of government in Hobbiton. But what could he want with Frodo?

The following morning, when Frodo walked into town and presented himself at Filibert’s office as requested, he received his first hint that something wasn’t right: Otho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins were there, too.

“Frodo, darling!” Lobelia exclaimed, rising from a long wooden bench where she had been waiting with her husband. To Frodo’s horror, she reached out for him and planted a resounding kiss on his cheek.

Otho did not rise, and his disinterested gaze swept over Frodo only briefly before returning to the window.

“Otho,” Lobelia prompted, an edge to her voice.

Otho rolled his eyes skyward, but plastered a pained smile on his bony face and said, “Good to see you, lad.” It almost sounded natural, too.

Neither of them seemed to care that Frodo didn’t respond.

“Ah, excellent, you’re all here,” said a nervous-looking hobbit Frodo hadn’t noticed in the doorway. “Mr. Baggins, I don’t believe we’ve met. I am Filibert Bolger. I imagine you must be wondering what this is about.”

Frodo nodded in agreement, although he did know what this was about, at least to some degree. Since Lobelia was involved, he knew it was about something he would not like at all.

The three of them followed the official into his cramped little office. The nervous way Filibert kept clasping his hands gave Frodo a feeling of great unease.

“It has been brought to my attention,” Filibert began without preamble, “that you, Mr. Baggins, despite being only twenty-nine, have been living alone for nearly two months, with no guardian responsible for you.”

Frodo stared. The feeling that something was about to go horribly wrong intensified.  “I’ve just turned thirty,” he said shortly.

“Yes, of course, I apologize.  Be that as it may, you are still several years underage,” Filibert cleared his throat nervously and went on. “Naturally, it is of some concern to hear of a tween without a guardian to look after him. I’ve no doubt you are a very responsible young fellow,” the jumpy official hastened to add, “but really, this can’t be allowed to go on indefinitely.”

Frodo drew himself up and said very carefully, “I thank you for your concern, Mr. Bolger, but it is not necessary. My guardian will be back at any time.”

“Yes, that may be, yes,” Filibert said, not meeting Frodo’s gaze. “But the question remains, what of the interim? Now your cousins here,” Filibert motioned to Otho and Lobelia, both of whom were watching Frodo very intently, “have been deeply concerned about your situation, and have filed a petition, which I have, ah, granted.”

A weight settled in Frodo’s stomach. “What petition?” he made himself ask calmly.

Filibert coughed. “For me to, ah, examine the will of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, and make suitable arrangements for your guardianship and for, ah, Bilbo’s possessions.”

Frodo jumped to his feet. “You can’t do that,” he said indignantly. “Bilbo is coming back!”

“Of course, of course,” Filibert said soothingly. He seemed a little less jumpy now that he had delivered his news. “And when he returns, you can be sure he’ll arrange things the way he wants them. But in the meantime, I have to look out for your welfare, don’t you see?”

“And the welfare of Bag End?” Frodo asked shrewdly, his brows drawing together.

Lobelia scowled. “You see? No manners at all. Total lack of upbringing—”

Otho elbowed his wife in the ribs and shook his head very slightly, and Lobelia subsided.

Frodo looked at them, puzzled. He hardly knew Otho, but this behaviour seemed quite uncharacteristic. “I don’t see why you want my uncle’s will read anyway, Lobelia,” the tween said at last. “I know it says Bag End is to go to me; Bilbo said so.”

Lobelia’s expression turned suddenly triumphant, and Filibert cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well... about that. I’m afraid the only will I’ve been able to find, ah, pre-dates your adoption. It clearly states that Bag End is to be inherited by Otho Sackville-Baggins, or if he has already... passed, by his son Lotho.”

“I beg your pardon.” Frodo didn’t know what to say, but he was beginning to get the horrible feeling that he had been outmanoeuvred before he’d even received the summons. “There must be some mistake. I know Bilbo made another will.”

“Well, yes, it seems likely he did,” Filibert said mildly. “But until a copy comes to light, or you can find four of the original seven witnesses to attest to its contents, I have no choice but to regard the earlier will as Bilbo’s last wishes.”

“Bilbo isn’t dead!” Frodo could feel the last vestiges of his control slipping away. “You can’t give them Bag End; he wouldn’t want that!” Frodo made himself take a deep breath and swallow the threatening tears. How could they do this to him, and to Bilbo? “What happened to Bilbo’s later will?” the tween said more calmly. “It should be filed at the mayor’s office at the very least, and surely Bilbo’s attorney has a copy, or at least recorded who the seven witnesses were.”

Filibert shifted in his seat. “Of course, these are reasonable questions, and I am happy to answer them. Unfortunately, a recent fire at the mayor’s office destroyed a good number of the documents. If Bilbo had a will there, it isn’t there now.”

“And the attorney?” Frodo asked sharply.

“Ah, yes. Old Granto Cooper, I believe?”

Frodo nodded.

“I’m afraid he passed on over a year ago. I spoke to Granto’s assistant, but the lad couldn’t find any record of a will more recent than the one I’ve got. And no one knows who the witnesses to a later will might have been.” Filibert cleared his throat. “You’re welcome to try tracking them down yourself, of course. Just remember, you must find at least four whose memories agree on this point.”

“I will find them, then,” Frodo said firmly. He noticed uneasily that Lobelia’s smile had not gone away. If anything, it widened, as if in anticipation. How could he and Bilbo have so underestimated her cunning? She had seemingly anticipated every way he might get out of this, and she had seen to it that he had no shred of official documentation with which to refute her. She, or... Otho.

Frodo glanced at the white-haired hobbit regarding him calmly. He knew Lobelia was a little dim, but Otho was an unknown. If he possessed the same streak of shrewd callousness that Lotho did, he might have helped Lobelia arrange to have a fire set at the mayor’s office, and taken advantage of the attorney’s death to throw his records into confusion. Frodo swallowed nervously and looked away. He needed to think, and he didn’t like the way Otho was looking at him.

“That’s fine,” Filibert said dismissively. “Now, the will makes no provision for any dependents, which is to be expected, I suppose. As the main beneficiary of the will, I have decided to award guardianship of you to Otho.”

Frodo’s head snapped up. “You cannot be serious!” he exclaimed.

“Of course I can,” Filibert said. “Actually, it’s fairly standard; if no other arrangements are specified, the recipient of the deceased’s smial also assumes responsibility for any dependents, assuming the recipient is a respectable hobbit of good character, of course. Otho and Lobelia will take good care of you, I’m sure.”

Naturally, Bilbo had not specified any such thing in his earlier will, because he had not planned to have or adopt children.

“They despise me,” Frodo protested angrily. This surely had to be some sort of nightmare...

“Nonsense,” said Filibert. “I’ve spoken to plenty of folks who claim to have observed Lobelia here treating you with kindness and parental concern.”

“Outside the Green Dragon that day,” Frodo said as realization dawned.

Lobelia didn’t reply, but the self-satisfied smirks on both the Sackville-Bagginses faces was answer enough.

“I want to talk to the mayor,” Frodo said suddenly. He didn’t know Mayor Whitfoot at all, but he was generally thought to be a fair, sensible sort of hobbit. There had to be some way out of this preposterous situation.

“You may do that, certainly,” Filibert said pleasantly. “But he won’t tell you any different. What you must bear in mind, Frodo, is that even if I had a newer will in my hand right now, in which Bilbo left you Bag End, you’re simply too young to inherit it. I’d still have to appoint guardians of Bag End, and of you until you come of age.” Filibert smiled magnanimously. “But worry not. Otho and I have already discussed this, and as your new guardian, he has decided that it might be best for you to live with other relatives. Thus, if you prefer not to remain at Bag End, you can go to Buckland or even Tookland, provided your cousins there will agree to take custody.”

“I’m not leaving as long as these people are living in Bilbo’s home,” Frodo said stubbornly. He swallowed and looked away as he felt his eyes fill. He would not humiliate himself by allowing the S-B’s to see how upsetting it was to think of losing Bilbo’s home as well as Bilbo himself.

Lobelia and Otho didn’t look disappointed, as Frodo had assumed they would. In fact, they didn’t look surprised at all. If they had already known he wouldn’t simply leave, what was their plan?

Frodo automatically rose when Filibert did, feeling thoroughly disgusted with himself for being so soundly outmanoeuvred by a couple of Sackville-Bagginses.

Filibert thanked them all for coming and saw them to the door.

“We’ll begin moving our things in tomorrow,” Otho said when they were outside. “You’d better not hide any treasure before we get there, or you’ll regret it.”

Frodo set his jaw under Otho’s threat. “You won’t get away with this. It’s only a matter of time before I find evidence of the later will, or Bilbo comes back.”

“We’ll see,” Lobelia said with a smile, and that frightened Frodo almost as much as Otho’s cold glare.

Frodo was too upset that day to figure out what to do. He had some vague idea of going to see the assistant of Bilbo’s late attorney, and sending off letters to Saradoc and Paladin. Frodo suspected they and their wives might have been witnesses to Bilbo’s second will, in which case he already had the four witnesses he needed. But something told him the Sackville-Bagginses would not have gone forward with their petition if finding witnesses would be so easy; they would know Saradoc and Paladin would be the first people Frodo would ask. But his Buckland and Tookland cousins were a starting point; perhaps they knew who the other witnesses had been.

But he couldn’t forget that the S-B’s were moving in tomorrow—what a dreadful thought. He knew they would do their utmost to torment him, and the only thought in his head right now was to safeguard the things they truly could use to hurt him. Bilbo’s book, for example, and his beautiful maps.

Contrary to popular belief, Bilbo didn’t have any hidden treasure of the sort Otho was no doubt thinking. Most of Bilbo’s wealth had long ago been converted to land, investments, and of course improvements to Bag End itself. It wasn’t as though Bilbo kept piles of jewels just lying around.

But Frodo searched Bag End top to bottom, setting aside the books, papers, and trinkets he knew were especially important to Bilbo. The old hobbit would want them all kept safe for his return, Frodo was certain. Bilbo would turn the S-B’s out of his smial the second he got home, of course, but if Lobelia took it into her head to destroy any of his irreplaceable possessions, Frodo would never forgive himself for not preventing it.

The contents of a tiny drawer in Bilbo’s desk gave Frodo pause; he had found Bilbo’s magic ring. The tween picked it up and held it, hesitating. He knew how fond Bilbo was of this little ring, but so far he had avoided taking anything of monetary value. Considering where he planned to hide these things, he’d thought it best not to risk Otho’s wrath. It was one thing to risk his own neck, but good, kind hobbits who had already done more than enough for him...

Frodo put the ring back and shut the drawer. Even if one of them found it and stole it, they wouldn’t destroy something potentially valuable. Bilbo could probably get it back later without too much trouble, Frodo decided.

52. In Search of Information

It was nearly midnight when Frodo sat down at last, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Every limb ached with exhaustion, but he had searched the entire smial for things to save. Frodo glanced down at the trunk beside him. He kicked the lid shut and turned the key, pocketing it.

It was much later than he’d expected, but perhaps it was better this way; there would be no one out at this hour to see him. He only hoped he would be forgiven for the unpardonably rude thing he was about to do.

Out in the garden, Frodo paused. The trunk was large enough to be unwieldy, but it wasn’t heavy; Bilbo’s own book, and some of his most precious Elvish books, maps, papers, and a few trinkets. Frodo didn’t dare risk anything more.

The night was quiet, and the moon was a mere sliver. No one would be watching at this hour, but the darkness was comforting anyway. Frodo made his way to the gate and down the path to Bagshot Row, walking softly and guided only by starlight. It was too dark to see the colour of the doors, but Frodo knew which one was yellow with a number 3 on it.

He had been afraid everyone would be asleep, but there was a faint light coming through a gap in the curtains over the single window. Frodo put the trunk down as quietly as he could; he didn’t want any neighbours coming to investigate. He knocked twice and waited.

For a moment Frodo feared he would have to knock louder, but then he heard the scrape of a chair leg. The curtain fluttered briefly as Halfred Gamgee’s surprised face peered at him through the window, and then the door opened.

“Can I come in?” Frodo asked in a near-whisper before Halfred could say anything. The other tween, a few months younger than Frodo, was known for his quick smiles and ready jokes, but one look at Frodo told him that something was gravely wrong.

Hal opened the door wider and motioned Frodo inside. Frodo set the trunk down on the floor of the Gamgee’s main room and closed the door behind him. He glanced nervously around and saw that Halfred apparently been sitting alone at the table, in his nightclothes.

“Just having a late night snack,” Hal explained awkwardly, motioning at the table.

Frodo nodded, shifting his weight. Now that the time had come, he felt as though drawing it out would somehow prevent what had happened today from becoming real. But this affected the Gamgees, too; aside from what he was about to ask of them, they would have a new employer as of tomorrow. Frodo wondered idly which would be worse: being a ward of the Sackville-Bagginses, or being employed by them?

“Are you all right?” Halfred asked softly.

Frodo looked away at the concern in the other’s voice, his throat suddenly tight.

“I do hate to ask this,” Frodo said, “but would you wake up your parents, please?”

Halfred’s eyes widened, but of course he knew Frodo wouldn’t ask such a thing without good reason. He nodded and disappeared into the back of the smial.

Frodo shifted uncomfortably but did not sit down; he didn’t want to impose any more than he already was.

“Mr. Frodo,” Bell said, pulling a robe over her nightclothes.

“Mrs. Gamgee, I am so sorry to wake you,” Frodo began, but she waved off his apology.

“Whatever is the matter, dear?” She was looking him over carefully, as though she expected to see some horrible wound gushing blood all over her kitchen floor.

Hamfast appeared behind her, followed by Halfred. The Gaffer’s eyes moved from the trunk on the floor to Frodo’s pale face. “Well, speak up, then,” he said.

Frodo swallowed; he was accustomed to the Gaffer’s abrupt manner, but in the present circumstances he couldn’t help thinking that Hamfast must be angry. He was likely to be angrier still once he heard what Frodo had to say.

But there was no turning back now, and Frodo told them everything. The meeting with Filibert Bolger, how the Sackville-Bagginses had anticipated his every protest, and finally, what was to happen tomorrow.

“And these are Master Bilbo’s things, which you want to hide in my house?” the Gaffer said, looking again at the trunk.

“Yes, sir,” Frodo confirmed.

No one said anything for a moment, and then Bell grasped the trunk by one of its handles, testing its weight.

“We could keep this well hidden in the pantry,” she said thoughtfully. “Behind the flour, if you follow me.”

“No.” Hamfast was shaking his head.

Frodo looked down. His desperation had led him to ask too much of the Gamgees...

“We’ll put it in the space under the bed,” the Gaffer finished.

Bell brightened. “Aye, that will do even better. Come along, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo lifted the trunk, waving off Halfred’s help, and followed Hamfast, wondering.

The Gaffer led him to one of the bedrooms, where he pushed the bed against the far wall. Frodo stood uneasily in the doorway until Bell came up behind him and nudged him gently inside. She went to her husband and handed him the hammer she’d fetched.

Hamfast nodded his thanks and turned the hammer around. To Frodo’s amazement, the old gardener began prying up floorboards where the bed had been.

When Hamfast sat back on his heels, it took a moment for Frodo to realize what he was seeing. The Gamgees apparently had a hollow space in the ground concealed by the floorboards under their bed. There wasn’t much in it but a few papers and a small sack.

Frodo felt awkward about having this secret revealed to him, but Bell and Halfred displayed no resentment. The tween never failed to be amazed by their trust in him.

As the Gaffer took the trunk from him and lowered it carefully into the hollow space, Frodo said, “I do apologize for imposing like this.”

“Nonsense,” Hamfast said gruffly. “You did right, bringin’ this here.” At Frodo’s look of surprise, he added, “We’ve long told ye to count on us for help in any circumstance. Did you not think we meant it?”

“Thank you,” Frodo said sincerely.

“Come, let’s go back to the kitchen and I’ll make some tea,” Bell said. “We’ll none of us feel like sleepin’ just yet, if you follow me. Leave the hammering for tomorrow, dear, or you’ll wake the little ones, not ta mention the neighbours,” she added to the Gaffer, who had just finished putting the floorboards back in place.

In the kitchen, Frodo sat at the table beside Halfred, who clearly had no desire to go back to bed at this point.

“I must ask ye, Mr. Frodo,” Hamfast broke the silence gravely, “will I still have a job tomorrow, do ye think?”

Frodo sighed and tried to smile. “Yes, I think you will, Mr. Gamgee. I feel certain that if Lobelia were planning to replace you, she would not have hesitated to tell me.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I imagine she would very much want to keep you on, actually; she won’t find anyone else with your experience to look after Bag End.”

Hamfast nodded once in simple acknowledgement as Bell poured the tea. “Well then, I reckon that just leaves you.”

“Me?”

“Aye,” Hamfast said. “What are ye going to do?”

“Do?” Frodo echoed stupidly. “Keep trying, of course. Tomorrow I shall visit the office of Bilbo’s attorney in Overhill, and I’ll begin searching for witnesses to the later will. I won’t let them get away with stealing Bilbo’s home!”

Bell and Hamfast exchanged looks.

“I know it’s not my place, Mr. Frodo, but you mustn’t stay here. Go to Buckland, and stay with Mr. Merry,” Hamfast said vehemently.

“I can’t, don’t you see?” Frodo had to make them understand. “If I leave, then the Sackville-Bagginses will have what they want.”

But Hamfast just shook his head. “What they want, lad, is for you to remain here so they can make ye miserable enough to go after Master Bilbo and never come back yourself. That’s the final part of their plan, you mark my words. Who’ll be left ta argue over Bag End then?”

Frodo’s mouth set in a determined line. “They won’t drive me off,” the tween said, and looked up to meet Hamfast’s gaze. “And Bilbo will come back.”

Hamfast measured the determination in the cerulean eyes, and sighed. “Be careful, young master,” he said at last, and hesitated. “That Filibert Bolger is Otho’s cousin, you know. Ye won’t find any official help without that will in your hand, or some very convincin’ witnesses, and that’s a fact.”

“Don’t call me that,” Frodo said stiffly. “Lobelia won’t like it,” he explained when the Gaffer looked at him questioningly. “Thank you for keeping Bilbo’s things. I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t come to grief over it.”

But Hamfast stopped Frodo with a cautious hand on his shoulder. This action alone was surprising enough to halt Frodo’s exit.

“Mr. Bilbo is the rightful master of Bag End, and if he truly is gone, then you are the master. Whatever title I must address ye by for now, Mr. Frodo, we here at least know the truth.”

Frodo started awake to hear birds twittering outside his window. And he had been certain he wouldn’t sleep a wink...

It was much earlier than Frodo usually woke, but of course today was no usual day. He couldn’t decide if he should go to Overhill and risk missing the arrival of Bag End’s new tenants, or wait here in hopes that they wouldn’t do anything too dreadful to the place if he was here to watch.

In the end, the decision was taken out of his hands; the Sackville-Bagginses arrived earlier than expected.

He had just finished dressing and was in the kitchen searching for breakfast when he heard a doorknob being rattled violently.

Frodo got to the foyer in time to hear Lobelia screech through the door, “Frodo Baggins, I know you’re in there!”

Frodo wondered how long it would take them to figure out the door was unlocked. He leaned against the wall and waited.

“Frodo Baggins!”

knock knock knock

“Open this door this instant!”

rattle rattle rattle

“Open this door or I’ll call the shirriffs on you, so help me!”

jiggle jiggle CREAK

Lobelia had finally turned the doorknob and the round green door obediently swung open.

“Hullo, cousins,” Frodo said.

Lobelia stormed up to him and grasped his arm so hard he was sure he’d have bruises.

“I’ll have no more impertinence out of you, do you understand me? This is our smial now, and you’d do well to remember that,” she snapped, shaking him a little.

“Yes, Lobelia,” Frodo said evenly. He knew perfectly well that arguing wouldn’t get him anywhere with this one. He jerked his arm out of her grasp and pushed past a smirking Lotho, snagging his cloak off its hook as he went.

He found Otho standing outside with Ted Sandyman, next to a fully loaded wagon.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Otho snapped as Frodo walked past him. “You’ve got to help with the unloading.”

Frodo didn’t slow down. “I’ll be back tonight,” he muttered. He didn’t think he could stand to be in their presence a moment longer; he might as well walk to Overhill right now, breakfast or no breakfast.

Frodo made it to Overhill by midmorning, having stopped in Hobbiton to buy a pastry to tide him over. It was hardly a proper breakfast by hobbit standards, but he had other things on his mind.

In Overhill, some inquiries led Frodo to a small office in one of the market buildings.

Painted on the half-open door were the words ‘Granto Cooper,’ and it looked as though someone had half-heartedly attempted to scratch it off. Frodo knocked lightly and stuck his head in.

“Hullo?” he called to the seemingly empty room.

“Ah—yes! I’m here,” a voice replied, and a dark curly head peeked out from behind a bookcase. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Granto’s assistant.”

“You’ve found him. Skip Rosso, at your service.”

Frodo found himself face to face with a hobbit only a few years older than himself. Skip seemed awkward but friendly as he explained that he was taking over Granto’s practice.

“I do remember Bilbo,” Skip said thoughtfully when Frodo had explained his errand. “And I remember distinctly that he made a second will—maybe eight years ago? I wasn’t working here then, but we changed our filing system about two years back, and I re-filed most of the wills, including Bilbo’s.”

“You remember the second will?” Frodo exclaimed in surprise. Filibert Bolger had led him to believe this would not be a simple task.

But Skip’s earnest face took on an expression of caution. “Well, I’ll look for it again, of course. But I feel I should warn you; someone broke in a few weeks ago and put a whole shelf in disarray; I’ve only just begun putting things to rights. Filibert Bolger was here a few days ago asking about Bilbo’s file, and I couldn’t find it then. If he’d told me how important it was, I would have looked harder, of course,” Skip added apologetically.

“That’s quite all right,” Frodo said. “Do you have time to look for it now? I should like to stay and help you, if possible.”

“Certainly,” Skip nodded. He led Frodo to the bookcase he had been hidden behind. Frodo was dismayed to see hundreds of pieces of parchment that had been neatly rolled and catalogued lying in disorder upon the floor.

“Was anything stolen?” Frodo asked thoughtfully.

“Oh, no,” Skip said. “The money in the desk wasn’t touched, and though I live right in back, the vandal never even went in there. Probably just some mischief-maker who had too much ale. Quite an inconvenience he caused, though.”

“Perhaps.”

Skip followed Frodo’s gaze to the mess on the floor. It took him a moment to catch on. “You think someone stole documents? Why, that would be dreadful!”

“Let’s find out then.”

They worked the rest of the morning and all afternoon. Skip offered to share his luncheon and, later, tea, with Frodo, for which the younger hobbit was exceedingly grateful.

It wasn’t until nearly suppertime that they finished.

“I can’t thank you enough for all your help, Frodo,” Skip said. “This would have taken me a week to do alone. And I’m dreadfully sorry about your cousin’s will.”

“You are more than welcome,” Frodo replied. It was the least he could do, as he was now convinced that his own relatives were responsible for this mess. They had sorted through the entire pile and put the documents they found back in their labelled envelopes.

An envelope with ‘Bilbo Baggins’ printed neatly across the front was found half-crumpled at the bottom of the pile, but it was empty. After sorting through all the loose papers, they found birth certificates, death certificates for members of Bilbo’s family, and even Frodo’s adoption papers, but none of these would allow Frodo to inherit Bag End in the face of that first will. They found absolutely nothing relating to the second will, and Skip’s incredible memory confirmed that no other documents were missing.

Frodo asked hopefully if Skip remembered who the witnesses to the second will had been, but the other hobbit shook his head.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t here at the time, as I said, and I didn’t look at anything other than Bilbo’s name when I saw it two years ago. Granto may have been a witness—he sometimes did that—but of course that doesn’t help you in the slightest.”

Skip persuaded Frodo to stay for supper as well, insisting he would be glad of the company. When it was dusk and Frodo knew he could stay no longer if he wanted to get back to Bag End tonight, Skip thought of one last piece of information to share.

“Bilbo came in a few years ago, on some other matter, but I remember something interesting that he said.”

“What did he say?” Frodo asked curiously, fastening the tie of his cloak.

“He mentioned ‘grabby relatives’ that he had to outsmart, and said he had hidden a third copy of his will somewhere they would never look.”

Frodo paused, thinking. He couldn’t imagine where Bilbo would have meant, unless it was hidden somewhere in Bag End. He could have buried it outside, Frodo supposed, but then he would risk some unsuspecting hobbit digging it up by accident. No, it must be in Bag End, even though Frodo had seen no trace of it in his search last night.

The tween smiled slightly. It seemed his next step was clear after all. “Thank you,” he said to Skip. “You have been very helpful, truly.”

A/N: Yes, it has been almost exactly a year since my last update.  Partly because I’ve been busy and/or sick for most of the year, and partly because I started re-reading from the beginning and was so appalled at my own writing that I decided to pause and edit the whole thing before writing any more (the editing is now complete).  I imagine not many people, if any, will want to pick it up again after all this time, but I’m going to finish this sucker anyway.  I just can’t stand leaving my one and only serious fanfic unfinished.  :P 

To refresh your memory:  It’s October 1398.  Frodo just turned 30, which is 16 in my weird nonlinear way of translating hobbit-human ages (explained in ch. 1).  He has been very happy living with Bilbo the last seven years, but two months ago two dwarves came to visit and Bilbo went off with them to try to rescue some old friends.  He expected to be gone only a few weeks, but knew it could be longer and told Frodo to go stay with his Buckland or Tookland relations if he was a long time returning.  But Frodo considers Bag End his home now and doesn’t want to leave.  Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is using this opportunity to try to get her hands on Bag End (again); she has apparently arranged for all the copies of Bilbo’s latest will to be lost, and successfully filed a petition to get custody of Bag End, and of Frodo.  The S-B’s have just moved in today, but Frodo spent the day in Overhill talking with the assistant of Bilbo’s late attorney, who told him Bilbo may have hidden another copy of the will somewhere in Bag End.  Frodo is determined to survive life as a Sackville-Baggins long enough to find that will.

53. Frodo Sackville-Baggins

Bag End was quiet when Frodo cautiously opened the round green door.  His pulse sounded impossibly loud in his ears.  It was well past dusk and Frodo wondered if the Sackville-Bagginses had gone to bed. He knew nothing of their habits.  A light was still burning in the foyer, and Frodo took it with him down the dark hall.

He had no idea what to expect, and it was with some trepidation that he inspected the rooms he passed.  The S-B’s had only occupied Bag End a day, but already Frodo could see changes.  Lobelia’s figurines were very much in evidence in the good parlour.  The fine furnishings seemed untouched, but the threadbare sofa in Frodo’s favourite sitting room was gone, replaced with three elaborately carved, well-polished chairs that Frodo had never seen before.  He sighed, knowing that they had probably been bought with Bilbo’s money.

Frodo was struck by a sudden unpleasant thought and hurried to his bedroom, but nothing had been disturbed.  It was one of the smial’s smaller bedrooms, and he supposed it was of little interest to the S-B’s.

“There you are.”

Frodo turned in surprise to find Otho in the doorway.

“We expected help moving in,” his new guardian said coldly.

Frodo stared.  “I had things to do,” he said.  If the S-B’s thought he would welcome them to Bag End after the underhanded way they had gotten hold of it…

Otho said nothing for a moment, his expression difficult to interpret.  “You’ll mind us from now on, if you know what’s good for you,” he said, and departed abruptly.

Frodo leaned around the door frame and watched Otho’s retreating back.  He saw him open a door a good distance down the hall.  A pool of light spilled into the dark hall before Otho went in and closed the door. 

Frodo’s heart sank.  “They’ve taken Bilbo’s room.”

The next morning, Frodo awoke to Lobelia screeching outside his window.

“I don’t care for your advice, and I don’t care for your impudent tone, Hamfast,” Lobelia snarled.  “If you can’t do as I ask, I’ll find someone who can.”

The Gaffer’s reply was a low murmur that Frodo couldn’t make out, but he was already throwing back the quilt.  He dressed hurriedly and ran outside, furious.

Frodo arrived to find Lobelia still deep in her tirade, and Hamfast standing very stiffly.  Frodo marched right up to his cousin.  “You can’t talk to him like that!” he exclaimed indignantly.

Lobelia’s scowl deepened when she saw Frodo.  “I can talk to my employee any way I please, and I’ll thank you to stay out of it,” she shrieked.

“But—”

“Of all the impudence!  Bilbo clearly hasn’t done any better with you than with the gardener,” she told him.  “I’ll have you know, this discussion has nothing to do with you, little Bucklander twit.  Hamfast has merely had the nerve to propose some absurd changes to the garden.”

Frodo tried to speak reasonably, for the Gaffer’s sake.  “You should take his advice, Lobelia.  Bilbo always does.  He’s the best gardener in Hobbiton, you know.”

“I’ll not have you telling me how to run my household,” Lobelia said coldly.  “Now, I have no more to say on the matter.  Hamfast, you’ll do as I’ve instructed or you’ll look for other employment.”

The Gaffer nodded, and Lobelia stalked away.  Frodo started after her, ready to try again, but Hamfast brought him up short with a firm hand on his arm.

“Leave it alone, lad,” Hamfast said steadily.

“But Mr. Gamgee…”

Hamfast squeezed his arm slightly, making sure he had Frodo’s attention.  “Don’t worry yourself, Mr. Frodo.  I can handle the likes o’ her.  She can say what she likes so long as I keep my job, and any damage she does to the garden I can put to rights quick enough when Master Bilbo gets back.”

“She shouldn’t talk to you like that.”  Frodo’s brows drew together.

The Gaffer just sighed.  “Thankee, lad,” he said sincerely.  “My Sam will be a lucky hobbit to have you for a master one day.  But mind you’re careful with those S-B’s.  Nothing you say is like to change their manners.”

“Bilbo will be furious,” Frodo said sadly.

“Aye.  But best not ta dwell on it.  I’ll be about my work now.”

Frodo left Hamfast to his garden and went back inside.  He didn’t know how, but he must manage not to let Lobelia get it into her head to fire Hamfast.  The old gardener’s skills were known throughout Hobbiton, but Frodo knew there was no one else with a large enough garden to warrant the salary Hamfast needed to support his family.

The tween went to the kitchen in search of first breakfast, and found that the S-B’s had clearly been there before him: there were dirty dishes and cooking implements spread over every surface.

But there was no evidence anyone had eaten at the kitchen table recently.  Frodo was puzzled.  Where were his cousins?

“I’m going out today.”

Frodo recognized Lotho’s voice and followed his ears to the main dining room, which Bilbo had never used as long as Frodo had lived there.  The three Sackville-Bagginses, seated around one end of the long table, looked up when Frodo came in.

“Oh, there you are,” Lobelia sniffed.  “There are some leftovers in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

There was plenty of food still on the table, for the meal had evidently just begun, but Frodo was clearly not invited to sit with the family.  He sighed in exasperation and turned to go, but Otho’s cold voice stopped him in his tracks.

“And we’ll have no more of your back talk, or I’ll give you a lesson you won’t forget.”

Frodo just stared at him.

“I’ve heard Bilbo’s discipline was lax, but you won’t find mine so.  You live in my smial now, and don’t forget it.”

Frodo was so angry he scarcely noticed Lobelia’s icy smile or Lotho smirking at him over his wheat cakes.  How dare they treat him like an ill-behaved pup in need of curbing?  Even the sternest residents of Brandy Hall had treated him with more courtesy when he was a small child.  He stormed from the room and straight outside, having lost all appetite for breakfast.

He walked aimlessly for awhile.  He was tempted to keep walking, all the way to Buckland and never look back.  But he couldn’t give up Bilbo’s home, not like this.

Frodo found himself near the Boffin hole and wondered if Folco was home.  He hadn’t seen much of his friend since Folco had started courting Willow Loamsdown.

Folco himself opened the door to Frodo’s knock.

“Frodo!  How are you managing?  I heard about the S-B’s…”

“It’s kind of rough,” Frodo admitted.

“I would imagine,” Folco said tartly, stepping back so Frodo could come inside.  “When I think of the nerve of those people, I—well.  Everyone knows Bag End is yours by rights, Frodo.”

“Only until Bilbo comes back,” Frodo reminded him.

“Certainly.”  Folco said no more on the subject, for he knew how worried Frodo was for Bilbo’s safety.  “I’m expecting Fatty over for a visit any minute.  He’ll be glad to see you.  We’ve been worried…”

“No Miss Loamsdown today, I take it?” Frodo said lightly, trying to think of something to talk about besides his difficulties.

“Alas, she is gone to visit her grandmother this month,” sighed Folco.

“Then we shall have to cheer each other up.”

Fatty arrived then, and the three tweens sat down to discuss Frodo’s situation.

“Oh dear, you should come live with one of us!” Fatty said when he’d heard how Frodo’s first two days as a Sackville-Baggins had gone.

“Your father might not agree to that,” Folco pointed out, “but you could certainly come live here as long as you liked.”

Frodo was moved by the offers.  “Thank you,” he said sincerely.  “But the mayor’s assistant conceded only that I could go to Tookland or Buckland relations, and I won’t go so far away.”

“Whyever not?” demanded Fatty.

“I have to find Bilbo’s will.  I won’t let the Sackville-Bagginses get away with stealing Bag End.  Let Bilbo sell it to them legitimately one day if they want it so much, but I won’t stand here and let them take away the only proper home I’ve known in years.”

Frodo didn’t often speak so passionately, and for a moment his friends didn’t know how to respond.

“Why do they hate you so much?” Fatty asked, bewildered.

“They don’t hate me—not exactly,” Frodo explained.  “They wouldn’t think about me at all if not for the fact that I stand in the way of what they want.  Odd as it sounds, it isn’t really personal to them, I think.”

“What are you going to do?” Folco asked finally.

“I’m going to go back there, and as soon as I’ve finished writing everyone I know who might have been a witness to Bilbo’s later will, I’m going to search Bag End myself,” Frodo declared.  “It must be hidden somewhere.  The S-B’s have kept me so upset I haven’t even started looking yet, but I won’t let them distract me any more.”

“All right,” said Fatty.  “What can we do to help?”

Frodo hesitated.  “Well… I could use some breakfast,” he admitted.

“Now that, we can arrange!” Folco said with a wink.

That afternoon, Lobelia caught Frodo rummaging around in Bilbo’s study.

“What are you doing?” she asked sharply.

“Looking for a book,” Frodo said.  In truth, he had already found the book he was looking for.  Now he was using the opportunity to hunt Bilbo’s shelves for the will.

Lobelia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “Well, hurry up,” she snapped.  “After this, I don’t want you coming in here anymore.”

Frodo stared.  “This is my home,” he said.  “Bilbo always let me borrow his books.”

“This is my home, and you live here only at my pleasure,” Lobelia corrected coldly.

“How do you expect to get away with this?” Frodo demanded.  “What are you going to do when Bilbo comes back and throws you out?”

Lobelia looked so angry Frodo took a step back.  “That worthless old fool will never show his face around here again, you stupid boy.  We finally have the smial we deserve, and I won’t have you causing trouble.  Now take your book and get out.”

After that day, Lobelia found ways to keep Frodo out of doors during the day, and he was forced to confine his search to late at night.  He tried to do as he was told the rest of the time, so the S-B’s would believe he had given up.  He didn’t like to guess what they would do if they learned the truth.

Frodo spent his time visiting Folco and Fatty, or the Gamgees.  With the arrival of November the weather turned grey and damp, and he no longer wanted to risk Bilbo’s books by reading out of doors.  He wasn’t able to keep up his studies in these circumstances, and with every passing day his despair grew.  Was Bilbo alive?  Was he ever coming back?

He felt he had always known Bilbo wanted to leave the Shire for good one day, but this time he had promised to come back.  Was Bilbo regretting that promise?  Had Frodo only imagined the great regard and love the old hobbit bore him?

One high point of those dark days was the Gamgee family.  Without their steadfast loyalty and concern, Frodo’s days would have been darker indeed.  As Frodo often reminded himself, at least he now had plenty of time to tutor Samwise.  The Gaffer had stopped bringing his youngest son to work unless the S-B’s were away from the smial, not thinking it a proper place to bring a child anymore.

Sam was now in charge of the Gamgee’s vegetable patch at Number 3 Bagshot Row, a responsibility in which he delighted.  This arrangement also left him with ample time to take lessons from Frodo.  Hamfast and Bell agreed this was for the best; Sam could continue to improve his reading, and Frodo had something to distract him from his troubles. 

The only thing that made Frodo uneasy about the new arrangement with the Gamgees was Lotho Sackville-Baggins.

His elder cousin hadn’t bothered Frodo much that first week, but when Frodo started spending more time with the Gamgees, Lotho seemed to get increasingly angry.

Whenever he saw Frodo out walking with Sam tagging happily along behind, or joking with Daisy and Halfred in the market, or being invited in for a cup of tea by Bell Gamgee, Lotho gave Frodo a furious glare, and sometimes made vile comments if no one else was around.

One day Frodo met Daisy coming home with two enormous baskets balanced precariously in her hands.  Frodo insisted on carrying one for her—he tried to take both, in fact, but the blushing Daisy wouldn’t let him.  They encountered Lotho coming the other way, and the older hobbit fixed Frodo with a disgusted glare.

Frodo was deeply irritated by Lotho’s rudeness, but he didn’t want to start anything in front of Daisy.

Lotho had other ideas.  “You have no shame, do you!” he said, blocking their path. 

“Get out of the way,” Frodo snapped, in no mood to spar with his cousin today.  He was aware of Daisy shifting uncomfortably beside him.

“Going about with trash like that, Cousin Frodo, no thought to spare for our family’s good name, whatever are you thinking of?” Lotho asked in mock concern.

Daisy gasped, and Frodo ground out, “Shut your mouth before you embarrass yourself any further.”

He shoved past Lotho, and Daisy quickly followed.  Frodo saw her and her baskets safely home, and when he returned to Bag End Lotho was waiting for him.

Frodo tried to ignore his cousin, but Lotho followed him into his room.

“What do you want, Lotho?” Frodo asked irritably.

“You can’t talk to me like that,” Lotho said dangerously.

When Frodo didn’t respond, Lotho grew even angrier.  He shoved his younger cousin, hard.  Frodo almost stumbled, but held his ground.

“Why won’t you fight me?” Lotho shouted, pent-up rage and frustration distorting his features.

“What would be the point?  You are not my enemy.” Frodo said.

“I am your enemy,” Lotho growled, hatred dripping from every word.

Frodo looked at him.  “Why?” he asked, because he honestly wanted to know.  “We’re blood relations.  Why must we be enemies?”

Lotho stepped back, putting some distance between them.  “You have what I want, and you don’t deserve it.  You have what should be mine.”

“What?  What do I have?”  Frodo couldn’t restrain a bitter, incredulous laugh.  “I have nothing!  Your family has taken everything from me, as they’ve wanted to from the day they realized Bilbo was fond of me.  I have no money, I have no inheritance, I have no home.  I don’t even have Bilbo, for whom I would gladly trade the other three.  My parents are dead, I have no one left.  I have no recourse but to depend on the charity of others.  In Elbereth’s name, what more do you want from me, Lotho?”

Lotho turned and glared at him.  “It’s not enough!” he shouted.  “We have your bloody inheritance, and it’s still not enough!  I see how folks around here look at you, and how they look at me,” he spat in disgust.  “People admire you.  Respect you.  Those accursed Gamgees would do anything for you.”

Frodo stared at his cousin, shocked by the admission.  Lotho wanted to be liked?  He might have laughed at the idea, if not for the dangerous glint in the other hobbit’s eye.

“You get loyalty, I get nothing but disdain,” Lotho went on.  “And you know what?  You don’t deserve it.”   

“Perhaps not,” Frodo said, “but you certainly don’t.”

Frodo saw the rage darkening on Lotho’s face and knew he’d gone too far.  Lotho’s fist connected solidly with his cousin’s jaw.  Frodo fell against the wall, stunned.

“I hate you, and I hate all these weak, pathetic little rats who admire you,” Lotho hissed.  “One day I’ll rule over you all, and then you’ll be sorry.  No one will dare speak against me then.”

Frodo shrank away from Lotho’s palpable anger and watched through watering eyes as his cousin turned on his heel and stormed from the room.  Frodo put a hand up to his face and winced at the pain.  But Lotho’s pain bothered him more.  He feared what his cousin would do if he ever gained true power over others.

54. Presumption and Prejudice

That night, Frodo waited in his room until he was sure the Sackville-Bagginses must be asleep, then he crept back to Bilbo's study. His aching jaw wouldn't let him sleep anyway, he reasoned. And the location of his bedroom had turned out to be convenient in the present circumstances; it allowed him access to a good portion of the smial without having to pass any occupied bedrooms.

Of course, the room Frodo most wanted to search was Bilbo's bedroom, but that was out of the question for now. The Sackville-Bagginses were rarely all out at the same time, and Frodo didn't want to risk being caught just yet.

In Bilbo's study, Frodo set down his candle and glanced around din the flickering light. "Where did you hide it, Bilbo?" he muttered.

Several hours later, Frodo was certain that wherever Bilbo had hidden the will, it wasn't in the desk or any of the book cases. He could hardly concentrate for yawning, so he put everything back the way he'd found it.

When Frodo entered the kitchen the next morning, Lobelia dropped the cup she'd been holding. It clattered on the floor and rolled under the table, but Lobelia did not move to pick it up. Frodo realized she was staring at his face.

"Is there a problem, Cousin?" he asked impatiently when she continued to stare.

"Not at all," she said finally, her expression changing swiftly from startled to calculating. "But you do look pale, Frodo. I fear you must be coming down with something. Yes, you'd best stay in today."

"I beg your pardon?" Frodo couldn't guess what was going through Lobelia's head, but he doubted it was concern for his well-being.

"Have some breakfast," she said shortly. "No need to go anywhere today."

She left the kitchen and Frodo sat down to eat, mystified. Usually she did whatever she could to get him out of doors during the day.

Frodo shrugged and helped himself to some porridge. It would give him an opportunity to write some much-needed letters, at any rate, and perhaps to search for the will, if he was careful.

Back in his room, Frodo composed letters to Saradoc Brandybuck and Paladin Took, the two hobbits Frodo thought most likely to know who had witnessed Bilbo's second will, or to have witnessed it themselves. Deciding quickly, he pocketed both letters and went to put on his cloak.

In the foyer, he heard footsteps, and then Lobelia arguing with Lotho.

"Only just come of age, and you think you know everything," Lobelia was saying.

"I'm almost thirty-five, Ma," Lotho retorted, "and I don't need you or anyone else telling me how to manage my own affairs."

"Foolish boy! Your temper will ruin us all."

"Ma—"

"Not another word!" Lobelia shrieked. "Just… don't touch him again."

The footsteps sounded again, and Frodo glanced up as his cousins walked in.

"Where do you think you're going?" Lobelia snapped.

"To the post office." Frodo was careful not to mention the letters; he would let Lobelia think he wanted to check for mail.

"Lotho can do that." Lobelia's pronouncement wiped the satisfied smirk from her son's face.

"But Ma!"

"Go," Lobelia said sharply. "We haven't checked the post in a fortnight, and Frodo needs to stay here and rest."

Lotho stormed out, sparing Frodo a murderous glare as he seized his coat from its hook.

It wasn't until that afternoon that Frodo discovered the real reason Lobelia didn't want him going out. He was on his way to the kitchen, looking for something to eat with his afternoon tea, when he caught sight of his reflection in the large mirror in the hall. Lobelia had been correct in one sense; he did look tired and pale. But far more striking was the enormous bruise blossoming over the left side of his jaw.

Frodo touched it tentatively and winced. He had certainly been aware all day that his jaw was still tender from Lotho's assault, but it hadn't occurred to him that it would be so obvious.

Frodo sighed and reflected that at least he and Lobelia agreed on one point: he didn't want anyone to see him like this. Especially not any of the Gamgees; they worried too much for him as it was.

"I'm worried," declared Marigold Gamgee. "I can't find Freddy anywhere."

She was only fifteen, but she had a way of commanding attention, and the rest of the family looked up from their supper. Even Samwise, who had been uncharacteristically quiet all day.

"Who's that?" asked Halfred with a smirk. "Your hairbrush?"

"No!" Marigold also had a habit of assigning names to all her favourite possessions.

"Her hairbrush is named Tulip," shy May said with a smile.

"I reckon Freddy must be her new rag doll," Sam guessed.

"No, that's Wilfred," Daisy informed him, helping herself to another pork chop.

"Now, stop teasing," Bell scolded. "Come sit down, Mari, and finish your supper."

"But I can't find Freddy!" Marigold wailed.

"Mind your mother, lass," Hamfast said firmly. "Come sit down and tell us about this Freddy o' yours."

Marigold composed herself and sat down reluctantly. "Freddy is my pet mouse," she said matter-of-factly.

"And where did you see him last?" Halfred asked, amused.

"In the hall," Mari said. "I was playing with him and he jumped right out of my hands, if you follow me. Ran right into the kitchen, he did."

Daisy squealed and pulled her feet up onto the bench. Halfred snickered into his cup of milk, and the other Gamgees glanced around uneasily.

Bell cleared her throat, trying not to laugh. "Mari-lass, remember what we said about keepin' pets indoors."

"Sorry, Mama," Marigold said guiltily. "But what about Freddy? He's all alone somewhere, and hungry, most like!"

"I'll help ye look for him," Samwise offered loudly. He had to speak up to be heard over Halfred's chortling.

"And when ye find him, I'll fix him a nice box ta stay in beside the woodpile," the Gaffer put in reluctantly. He didn't hold with keeping pets, but he had a soft spot for his youngest daughter.

"Thankee Dad, and Sam," Marigold said. She was pleased that the Gaffer had volunteered his help so readily, for he had been somewhat distant lately. It was obvious to the whole family that working for the Sackville-Bagginses was beginning to wear on him.

"All right then," Bell said. "And we'll all help look for Freddy after supper." She looked significantly at the still-smirking Halfred. "If he's in this smial, he will be found."

"You've been awfully quiet today, Sam," Halfred observed, trying to redirect his mother's eagle eye. "What's eatin' you?"

"Mr. Frodo didn't come today," the eighteen-year-old said slowly.

"Oh," said Halfred, surprised. "That ain't like him, is it?"

"Now Sam-lad, you know you mustn't presume too much," the Gaffer lectured, out of habit. "Mr. Frodo is grantin' you a favour, comin' ta give you lessons as he does."

"Don't worry, love," Bell said, patting her son's little hand. "Like as not he just forgot, or found he had ta do somethin' else. We'll see him tomorrow, you mark my words."

But they didn't see Frodo the next day, or the day after that.

"What on earth coulda happened?" Bell asked Hamfast that night. They were conferring in private, not wanting to worry the children. "Sam's right, it isn't like him."

"No," Hamfast agreed. "It ain't like him. I don't know what ta make of it."

"Have you seen the lad at all, coming or going?"

"Not till this morning," the Gaffer said slowly. "He went out real early, before the sun was full up. I was just gettin' out my tools."

"Did he speak to ye? Say anything about his whereabouts lately?" Bell demanded.

"No… well, not right away. He didn't say a word till I called out ta him, asked where he was off to so early."

"Aye? What did he say?"

Hamfast scratched his head. "Said he needed ta mail some letters."

Bell nodded. "I expect he's finally written to his relations about this mess. It's about time, and that's a fact."

"Aye… something weren't right, though," Hamfast said hesitantly. "His manner was different than usual; he were a little short with me, truth to tell. Hardly even looked at me; just answered my question and kept right on walkin'."

"Hm." Bell frowned, not liking the sound of things at all. "I wonder what's gotten into the lad?"

"Might be his new family startin' ta rub off on him…" Hamfast hated to say it, but it made some sort of sense.

Bell stared. "I do hope you're wrong, Ham."

"Think we oughta go up there and see what's what?"

Bell hesitated. "As you're always remindin' our Sam, we ought not to go presuming. It ain't our place to make him talk ta us. Not like he owes us an explanation."

"Aye," Hamfast said tersely. "Still, it's a mighty cruel thing ta leave Samwise hangin' like that, with nary a word about it. I never would've thought Mr. Frodo that sort."

"No, and me either," said Bell thoughtfully. "But changes do happen in the tween years, and not always for the better. Still, no use jumpin' to conclusions. The lad has shown us many a kindness over the years."

"Very true, but he's livin' with the Sackville-Bagginses now," the Gaffer said darkly, unable to move past the earlier theme. "They're a bad enough lot ta alter any impressionable young hobbit. Remember Fredegar Bolger?"

Bell was silent for a moment. "No, Ham, I don't believe it. Not of Mr. Frodo. He were raised better than that."

Hamfast paused. "By Master Bilbo, maybe. But he lived a long time away over in Brandy Hall, if ye follow me. He may be a Bucklander yet, deep inside…"

Bell frowned. "You know I don't hold with such notions, Ham. And I thought you'd given them up! I think working for that Lobelia must be takin' its toll on you, as well."

Hamfast shrugged. It was true these were trying times for him, and Bell might call him narrow-minded, but he figured stories only got started because there was a grain of truth to them.

The following morning, Otho appeared in Frodo's doorway. "Going out today?" he asked shortly.

"Yes," Frodo said, wondering if he was about to be confined to the smial for another day.

But Otho only said "Good," peering at him suspiciously. "My wife noticed some of the library shelves are in disarray. You haven't been in there, making a mess, have you?"

"No," Frodo lied. He mentally reproached himself for his carelessness. He had been searching in there the previous night; he must have been too tired to put everything back in its place.

"If I find you've been stealing from us, you'll learn the meaning of trouble." Otho's stare chilled Frodo's blood, but he remained mute. Finally the older hobbit said, "Lobelia wants to speak with you," and turned on his heel and left.

Frodo sighed and tried to relax. Otho had always been a cold and distant figure, and Frodo had no idea if the constant threats were empty or not. He did not want to find out. But apparently the Sackville-Bagginses had decided the risk of Frodo finding the will outweighed the likelihood of someone being alarmed by the faded bruises on his face; it would be good to get outside, away from his relatives.

The tween paused in the doorway to Bilbo's room. Lobelia was in there, staring absently out the window as she fumbled in her dress pocket. Frodo frowned, uneasy for some reason.

She turned and saw him. "Sit," she said coldly, pointing to Bilbo's armchair. Frodo sat down hesitantly while Lobelia paced back and forth, still fumbling with her pocket.

"We have to talk about this constant rummaging of yours," she said angrily. "We won't stand for any thievery around here, especially not from you."

"I haven't stolen anything!" Frodo said indignantly.

"All this sneaking around at night, it has to stop. I know what you're looking for, but you won't find it. And if I ever catch you—if Otho ever catches you—well." Lobelia paused and turned to glare at him. "Of all the ungrateful—honestly! You're an orphan, Frodo. A miserable Bucklander orphan. And we're giving you a place to live—what more could you want?"

He saw her take something out of her dress pocket and jumped up in anger.

"Where did you get that?" Frodo cried.

Lobelia's bony fingers closed around Bilbo's magic ring. "This? Found it in a drawer. Some of that dragon treasure of Bilbo's, I imagine. Well, it's mine now."

Frodo said nothing, not certain why he was reacting so strongly to this, after everything else he'd been through in the past months.

"Why?" Lobelia was peering at him suspiciously now. "Did you mean to hide this from me? Is there more treasure that you've hidden from me?"

"No!"

"Tell me at once, you little wretch!" Lobelia shrieked, shaking him by the shoulders. "I'll find out what you're hiding. It's useless to keep it from me!"

Frodo twisted away and fled from the room. Outside, he made for the woods in back of the Hill and didn't slow down till he was surrounded by trees. When Frodo closed his eyes, he could still see the greed and mistrust in Lobelia's expression.

Hamfast sat in his favourite chair and stared grimly into the fire, listening to Bell putting away the last of the supper dishes.

"Are ye going ta sit there like a lump all night, dear?"

Hamfast half turned, not having heard her come in. He reached for her hand and drew her closer. "Don't much feel like sleepin', if you follow me. Little ones in bed?"

"Aye." Bell sighed and squeezed his hand. "Well, maybe a little gardening would tire ye out. That shrub out front has fallen right over again."

The Gaffer nodded and stood. "I'll have a look," he said.

Outside with a lantern, Hamfast saw that the poor shrub was tilting drunkenly against the sod wall. He righted it, but saw that it would fall again with little provocation. "Might as well do the job right," he muttered to himself, and set out for the top of the Hill to retrieve some of his tools.

Bag End was quiet and dark, and Hamfast noticed as he passed Frodo's dark room that the curtains were open, the room deserted. He frowned, wondering what Frodo was doing out so late. Carousing with Lotho, perhaps? He wondered what Bilbo would think of Frodo's habits lately, and his failure to honour his promise to Samwise. He sighed and continued on past the kitchen, toward the tool shed.

Hamfast was startled to hear a twig snap very close by; he caught just a glimpse of a pale, thin figure in the light cast by the kitchen lantern.

"Oh!" the figure exclaimed, and retreated a step into the shadows.

"Mr. Frodo?"

"Yes," the figure said sheepishly, but didn't come any closer. "I'm sorry if I startled you. How are you, Master Gamgee?"

"Well enough," the Gaffer said stiffly. He didn't know how he had expected Frodo to behave on their next meeting, but somehow this wasn't quite it. "Had a busy week, have you?" he asked a little more roughly, because for all his talk the Gaffer felt keenly any slight to young Samwise.

Frodo didn't answer for a moment, and Hamfast wished he would step into the light so he could see the boy's expression. "I—yes, I suppose I have," Frodo said finally.

"I see," Hamfast said, and hesitated only briefly before crossing another line. "Our Sam was mighty low not ta see you of late, Mr. Frodo," he said pointedly.

Frodo was silent at first. "I'm sorry. I should ask his forgiveness, and yours," the tween said after a moment, much to Hamfast's surprise. "I thought of leaving a note, more than once, but I… could not think what to write."

The Gaffer waited for some further explanation, but none was forthcoming.

"It's late, I should go in," Frodo muttered. He started forward as if to go through the kitchen door, head down.

"Out rather late, aren't ye?" Hamfast challenged, not stepping aside. "I don't think Master Bilbo would approve."

"Perhaps not," Frodo agreed, looking away.

"Now look here," the Gaffer said sharply. He decided that gentlehobbit or no, Frodo would not escape before he said his piece. "I don't know where you've been keepin' yourself or what you've been up to, and maybe it ain't my business. But Master Bilbo trusted me ta keep an eye out for ye, and I don't reckon he'd care for the idea of you out carousin' at all hours with Lotho Sackville-Baggins, or whatever 'tis you're doin'."

Frodo's expression was one of shock, but then he looked down again, fair face flushing with anger. "Please, Mr. Gamgee, stay out of it," he said tightly.

"But you've been in the woods, seemingly," Hamfast went on, for he'd just noticed how dirty Frodo appeared. "You Bucklanders have some queer habits, though, and maybe I don't want ta know what you've been up to."

He instantly wished he could take his words back when he saw the unconcealed hurt on Frodo's face.

"I'll go inside now," Frodo said stiffly, and tried to push past the Gaffer.

This was the closest look Hamfast had gotten in days, and even in the dubious light of the kitchen lantern he could see the boy was pale and tired, under the dirt. But close up, the smudges on Frodo's jaw didn't quite look like dirt.

Hamfast seized Frodo by the shoulders. "Is that a bruise there?" he demanded.

"What? No," Frodo said, trying to pull away.

The Gaffer tilted Frodo's chin toward the light, feeling sick. "Somebody hit you, and that's a fact," he ground out.

"Maybe I've been out brawling in the streets, is that what you're thinking, Master Hamfast?" Frodo retorted, sapphire eyes sparking with anger. "It's just too bad Bilbo had the poor taste to adopt one of those queer Bucklanders, I suppose. You just never know what they'll do."

Hamfast stepped back as though he'd been slapped. For a moment he could only stare at the pale face that was twisted with anguish.

"I—forgive me, Mr. Frodo," Hamfast said hoarsely, hearing his own appalling words thrown back at him. "I'm so ashamed, I can't tell ye."

Frodo turned away, clearly struggling to compose himself.

"Those bastards hit you."

Frodo looked back at him, clearly startled by the coarse language. "Lotho did," he admitted wryly. "But his parents didn't condone it, if that's what you're worried about. Lobelia was furious with him, in fact."

"I'm worried about you, Mr. Frodo," Hamfast said gruffly.

The tween looked uncomfortable. “Well, please don’t, truly.”

Realization dawned suddenly. “That’s why you been stayin’ away from our place, is it?” Hamfast scowled. “Didn’t want ta worry us?”

“This situation is difficult enough as it is.” Frodo shifted uneasily.

“Aye, that’s a fact,” the Gaffer said. “But I’ll have a thing or two to say to Lobelia tomorrow, you mark my words.”

“No!” Frodo exclaimed. “You mustn’t do that, please, Mr. Gamgee. What good will it do me if she fires you?”

Hamfast’s brows drew together. “It ain’t right, they way they’re treating you, Mr. Frodo.”

“I know.”

“Surely ye won’t stay here, not after this?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Frodo said firmly.

Hamfast stared at him, dumbfounded in the face of Frodo’s unyielding expression. “You’ll report ‘em if Lotho gets rough again, won’t ye?” he said after a moment.

“He won’t,” was all Frodo said, but the blue eyes flashed with purpose. “I am determined to see this through. Someone must oppose them or they’ll never stop disdaining the liberties of others.”

The Gaffer shook his head slowly. This lad never failed to astonish him. “I’ll help ye any way I can, o’ course,” was all he could think to say.

“Thank you,” Frodo said sincerely. He scuffed his toe awkwardly. “I’ll—I’ll come by and see Sam tomorrow… I suppose there’s no reason to hide, now that you’ve seen me. If I’m still welcome, that is.”

“More than welcome, always.” Hamfast cleared his throat. "I must beg yer forgiveness, Mr. Frodo, for the way I spoke earlier. I—there's no excuse, o' course."

“I don’t—there’s no reason to apologize for how you see me,” Frodo said sadly. “You’re not the only one, I’m sure.”

Hamfast nearly choked. “But that ain’t it at all, Mr. Frodo. I got run away with my foolish notions, and that’s unpardonable, but I… think mighty highly of ye and I don’t reckon Master Bilbo could’ve made a better choice of an heir.” The Gaffer didn’t normally reveal his inner thoughts in such a way, and it was difficult to do now.

But Frodo seemed to hold his head a little higher when he acknowledged Hamfast and bade him good night, and that was a good thing. After Frodo went inside, the Gaffer decided not to bother retrieving his tools. He didn’t think he’d have trouble sleeping now, and he had to be up early in the morning to give Frodo’s property the attention it deserved.

A/N: Frodo is 30 (16 in human terms), Halfred is 29 (15), Sam is 18 (9), Marigold is 14 (7).

55.  A Friend In Need

December 15, 1398

My dear Frodo,

Your news is most disquieting.  I do not know what the Sackville-Bagginses mean by challenging Bilbo’s will, for I feel sure another copy will come to light before long.  From what I know of Lobelia, she has some scheme in mind, and it cannot bode well for you, dear cousin.  I urge you again to leave dreary old Bag End to its lonesome and come stay with us until Bilbo’s return!  Merry would be delighted to see you, as would Esme and I.  Please consider it.  I cannot think that Bilbo would want you moping around all alone for such an extended period.

As to your query, I can assure you that Esmeralda and I both witnessed Bilbo’s second will, the one which leaves everything to you.  Happy we were to do it, too.  We were the first to sign, and we did not see who the others were.  I asked around Brandy Hall and determined that Old Rory witnessed directly after we did.  I could uncover no others.  Paladin and Eglantine were to be there, I remember, but Paladin fell ill at the last minute and they did not come.  Bilbo did not seem overly concerned about finding replacements, but I regret he did not tell me who he was thinking of.  I know they are not at Brandy Hall, in any case.  I fear one of them might have been the Widow Brandybuck, but as you know she passed several years ago.

I regret I can be of no help in identifying a fourth witness.  But don’t be down-hearted; you have many relatives besides Bilbo who would fight tooth and nail on your behalf.  If the S-B’s press their claim, they will have some very angry Brandybucks (and Tooks, I daresay) to contend with.

Your affectionate cousin,

Saradoc Brandybuck

Frodo put the letter next to Paladin’s and sat back with a sigh.  Saradoc said much the same thing as Paladin; he was one witness away from being able to prove the contents of Bilbo’s second will, but he had no idea where to look next.

He felt a twinge of guilt for keeping the whole story from both of them.  But if they knew that the S-B’s had Bag End already, and custody of Frodo, they would never allow him to remain, and Frodo would lose all hope of finding the will.

Frodo tucked the letters safely away and peered into the hall.  Deciding the S-B’s were in bed, he crept out to resume the search.

“I’m hearing disturbing things about you, Frodo,” Lobelia said the following morning after second breakfast.

Frodo glanced quickly at Lotho’s smirking face.  What had his cousin seen?

“It appears you’ve been doing a great deal of late night wandering, and we can’t have that,” Lobelia continued.  “I’ve decided to move you out of that little room of yours and into the nicer one across from Otho and me.  I think you’ll be more comfortable there.”

“I’m satisfied with my current room, thank you,” Frodo said firmly.  It would be far more difficult to sneak about at night from the room Lobelia mentioned.

“Nonsense.  It’s all arranged.  Those Gamgee boys are coming by this afternoon to move your things.  Now I don’t want you helping them, mind.  You’ll spend the day out of doors.  Some fresh air will cure your insomnia.”

Frodo stared at her.  It had been chilly and damp all week, and today it looked like rain.  But he decided anything was preferable to being cooped up with his cousins, so he didn’t argue.

This pattern continued several days; Frodo’s new room was certainly nicer than his old one, although not as homey.  And he couldn’t leave it at night without waking the S-B’s, so he found himself catching up on his sleep instead of searching for Bilbo’s will.

It didn’t seem to do much good, though.  Frodo felt more tired than ever.  Tired of the S-B’s, tired of finding no hint of the missing will, but most of all, tired of worrying what had happened to Bilbo.

Frodo thought about this often, during the long drizzly afternoons he spent wandering aimlessly after his morning lessons with Sam.  Did Bilbo even want to come back?  Frodo knew his presence had been a hindrance to Bilbo’s adventurous lifestyle, but selfishly, he hadn’t cared.  He had been too happy to have Bilbo all to himself.  And now his favourite cousin had been gone nearly four months.  Four months, when Bilbo had planned to be back within one.

One morning Frodo was even more listless than usual, much to Sam’s consternation.

“Was it all right, Mr. Frodo?” the eighteen-year-old asked anxiously.

Frodo tried to rouse himself from his stupor.  He felt a twinge of shame when he realized he hadn’t heard a word of the passage Sam had just read.  It was no first reader; Sam’s vocabulary had increased impressively in the last few years.

“You’ve come such a long way, dear Sam,” Frodo murmured.

Samwise cocked his head.  “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, truly.  It’s only this stubborn head cold making me a bit slow.”  Frodo sniffled and allowed his head to rest on his forearm, and looked sideways at Sam.  “Read on a little, would you?  I do like to hear you read.”

The sandy-haired lad looked worried but pleased by Frodo’s praise.  He lifted the book again and began to read.

After awhile, Frodo stopped trying to understand the words and simply let the childish voice wash over him.

When the reading stopped, Frodo hardly noticed.  He felt a small hand shake him hesitantly by the shoulder, but his head was simply too heavy to lift, and pounding besides.

“Ma!” he heard Sam cry from far away.  “Somethin’s wrong with Mr. Frodo!”

The words didn’t quite make sense, but Frodo felt he should respond somehow.

“Mr. Frodo?” another voice said, and another, larger hand touched his arm.  The he felt the hand touch his forehead and quickly draw back. 

“He’s burnin’ up.  Halfred, run and get your dad.”

Frodo awoke to unfamiliar surroundings.  A bare earthen ceiling flickered in and out of view by the light of a candle.  He didn’t know where he was, but he felt safe, and his mind was too fuzzy to wonder any further.  He was cold, but the heavy quilt over him felt wonderful.

Sometime later, he became aware that he was not alone.  He opened aching eyes.

“Do you want to play with Freddy?” the little lass by his bedside said, offering him a grey mouse with twitching whiskers.

Frodo couldn’t help smiling a little.  “Maybe later,” he said.  “But thank you for the kind offer,” he added when Marigold’s face fell.

She brightened.  “I think he likes ye.  Know what else he likes?  Seeds.  But only real little ones.  I reckon that’s ‘cause his mouth is too small to eat bigger ones, if you follow me.”

It took Frodo’s sluggish mind a moment to catch up.  He opened his mouth to answer.

“Oh, but I must tell my Ma you’re awake.  I’m not ta talk to you or bother you in any way,” Marigold said decisively before trotting out of Frodo’s line of sight, Freddy dropped hastily in her apron pocket.

“Wait!” Frodo’s voice came out as a croak.

Marigold reappeared, looking at him curiously.  “Aye?”

“Where am I?  I mean... I know I must be in your family’s hole, but I don’t recall quite what happened.”

Marigold perched on the edge of the bed, peering at him with interest.  “Truly?  Ye don’t remember nothin’?”

Frodo shook his head.

“Goodness!” Marigold said, clearly impressed.  “Ye fell ill, seemingly.  Ma and Dad argued over what ta do with you, when they couldn’t wake you.  Ma declared she’d not send ye home to the care of ‘that woman’.  Then Dad didn’t know what ta do, sayin’ it wouldn’t be fitting ta keep ye here with the likes of us.  But he didn’t want ta send ye home, neither.  Then they thought ta change up their bed an’ tuck ye in there, but Sam and Hal said that would make ye real uncomfortable, putting our parents out o’ their bed.  They thought ye’d be happier in here, even though it ain’t so nice and private.”

“Where?” Frodo asked when Marigold finally paused for breath.

“Why, in Hamson’s old bed, o’ course!  We still had the bedframe; t’weren’t any trouble to bring it back in here and set it up nice and fresh for ye.”

Frodo finally noticed two other beds crowded into the little room.  “Sam and Hal’s room?” he guessed.

Marigold confirmed this with a nod.  “Aye, that’s right.  Dad was mighty reluctant, and told us all that ye weren’t a lost puppy being taken in, and we must all behave accordingly.  I don’t think ye look anything like a puppy though, beggin’ your pardon.  Sam’s real excited to have ye for a guest.  Been practicing his manners and everything.” Marigold nodded knowingly.  “Not me, though.  I always have good manners, whether we have gentlehobbit visitors or no.”

“I daresay you have,” Frodo said gravely.

Marigold beamed at him and started to say something else when Bell came in, the light of the candle she carried brightening the room.

“I see you’re awake, Mr. Frodo,” she said, with a warning look at Marigold.  “How are ye feeling?”

“All right, thank you,” Frodo said.  “Mrs. Gamgee, I’m so sorry to put you out.”

“Nonsense,” she replied.  “T’is our honour.  And don’t bother puttin’ on a brave face; I’ve raised six little ones and there ain’t no foolin’ me.”

Frodo groaned and let his head fall back on the pillow.  “Well then, I suppose I should tell you I have a cold.”

“Ye don’t say,” Bell smiled wryly.  “I should think ye would’ve noticed by know that it’s a bit more than a cold.  You pretty well fainted o’ fever a few hours ago.  I don’t know what you’re thinkin’ of, wandering out in the rain as ye do.  If ye don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

“I don’t mind,” Frodo said tiredly.

“But never fret.  Ye feel a mite cooler already.  You’ll be back to yourself in no time at all, and that’s a fact.”

“Thanks in no small part to you and your family.”

“Sticklebacks!  Now have some tea.”

The room seemed to spin when Frodo sat up, but he definitely felt better than he had that morning.  He sipped the tea and wondered what he ought to do about leaving.  He hated to trespass on the Gamgee’s kindness any longer than necessary, but he feared he might fall flat on his face if he tried to get up now.  But it must be quite late, and surely they didn’t want him to stay the night.

Frodo’s dilemma was solved for him because he fell asleep again before he could say anything to Bell.

December 20, 1398

When he woke in the morning, Bell plied him with food such as he hadn’t eaten since Bilbo went away.  She insisted on bringing him first and second breakfasts as well as elevenses.  By luncheon he felt well enough to eat with the family in the kitchen, and Frodo felt he never wanted to leave.  But he’d already imposed far too long, and at his insistence, Bell reluctantly allowed him to leave before afternoon tea.

Halfred saw him all the way to the door, for he was still tired and a trifle unsteady, although the fever had gone.

The round green door opened before Frodo had time to open it.

“Well, there you are,” Lobelia snapped.  “Awfully inconsiderate of you to make yourself scarce, today of all days.”

“What’s special about today?” Frodo demanded.

“Dear Otho and Lotho have gone to pay their respects to old Aunt Daffy, of course, leaving me alone the rest of the week.”

Frodo stared at her tiredly.  He had forgotten about that, but didn’t see what it had to do with him.  He wanted to go in and lie down, but Lobelia wasn’t stepping aside.  Halfred shifted uncomfortably, clearly unwilling to leave until Frodo was safely indoors.

Lobelia’s eyes narrowed.  “What are you doing here at this hour, anyway?  You know I like you to be out of doors in the afternoons, enjoying the fresh air.”

“Let me in, Lobelia, I’ve been ill,” Frodo said, ignoring Halfred’s start when Lobelia revealed the reason he was outside in bad weather so much.

“Or maybe it has something to do with this.”  Lobelia drew something out of her pocket and showed it to him.  It was a key.  “It appears to be the key to a trunk,” she said accusingly.  “But it doesn’t open any of the trunks in Bag End.  Any of the trunks I could find, anyway.”

Frodo was puzzled for a moment, but then he recognized the key and remembered what trunk it opened.  Then he remembered where that trunk currently was, and knew he must give Lobelia no hint, or there would be a great deal of trouble for more than just himself.

“And these are Master Bilbo’s things, which you want to hide in my house?” the Gaffer said, looking again at the trunk.

“Yes, sir,” Frodo confirmed.

No one said anything for a moment, and then Bell grasped the trunk by one of its handles, testing its weight.

“We could keep this well hidden in the pantry,” she said thoughtfully. “Behind the flour, if you follow me.”

“No.” Hamfast was shaking his head.

Frodo looked down. His desperation had led him to ask too much of the Gamgees...

“We’ll put it in the space under the bed,” the Gaffer finished.

Bell brightened. “Aye, that will do even better. Come along, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo lifted the trunk, waving off Halfred’s help, and followed Hamfast, wondering.

The Gaffer led him to one of the bedrooms, where he pushed the bed against the far wall. Frodo stood uneasily in the doorway until Bell came up behind him and nudged him gently inside. She went to her husband and handed him the hammer she’d fetched.

Hamfast nodded his thanks and turned the hammer around. To Frodo’s amazement, the old gardener began prying up floorboards where the bed had been.

When Hamfast sat back on his heels, it took a moment for Frodo to realize what he was seeing. The Gamgees apparently had a hollow space in the ground concealed by the floorboards under their bed. There wasn’t much in it but a few papers and a small sack.

Frodo felt awkward about having this secret revealed to him, but Bell and Halfred displayed no resentment. The tween never failed to be amazed by their trust in him.

As the Gaffer took the trunk from him and lowered it carefully into the hollow space, Frodo said, “I do apologize for imposing like this.”

“Nonsense,” Hamfast said gruffly. “You did right, bringin’ this here.” At Frodo’s look of surprise, he added, “We’ve long told ye to count on us for help in any circumstance. Did you not think we meant it?”

Frodo unstuck his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth.  “What has that to do with me?” he asked neutrally.

“Impudent boy!”  Lobelia grabbed at his arm.  “I found this key in your desk, and now I know you’ve been concealing Bilbo’s treasure from us!”

“I have concealed no treasure,” Frodo insisted truthfully, for the things he had hidden were of mostly sentimental value.

“Lying Bucklander!” Lobelia shrieked.  “I demand you show me the trunk this key opens, at once!”

“I will not,” Frodo said.  He could have lied and pretended to be ignorant, but he didn’t want to be what Lobelia had just accused him of.  He braced himself for further tirades from the furious lady, but she plunged her hand in her other pocket and seemed, inexplicably, to regain control of herself.  This made Frodo even more nervous.

“Very well,” Lobelia said coldly.  “But you will be punished for your wilful disobedience, and it will make any punishment that old softie Bilbo ever inflicted seem like a summer’s picnic.”

Frodo stared, too surprised to respond.

“And don’t think you’ll get off lightly just because my Otho is out of town.  You’ll get a beating that will stick.  You, boy!” she barked at Halfred, who was still standing there, white with shock.  “Run back home and fetch your father.  I have a chore for him.”

Halfred hesitated, looking at Frodo.  Frodo nodded at him to proceed.  What choice was there?

“And tell him if he wants to continue in my employment, he’ll carry out the task to my satisfaction,” she screamed at Halfred’s retreating back.

Hamfast Gamgee looked up slowly when Lobelia finished speaking.  He met the gaze of the young master across the room.

The lad looked paler and tireder than usual, not surprising given he was still recovering from a fever; but the queer blue eyes were bright and calm as they met the Gaffer’s gaze.

“I can’t do as ye ask,” he told Lobelia, maintaining a respectful tone of voice with great effort.

Lobelia glared.  “That boy needs to be taught a lesson.  He snoops around the place still, after many warnings.  And now I find he’s concealing some of my property.”

“Bag End belongs to Mr. Frodo, by rights,” Hamfast said.  “He can do as he likes with it.”

Lobelia's fist clenched in her dress pocket, but she went on calmly.  “I hadn’t expected to hear such insolence from you as well, Hamfast,” Lobelia sniffed.  “It is not your place to question my methods.  Now I demand you punish him.”

“I won’t touch him,” the Gaffer repeated flatly.  “’Tis out o’ the question.”

Lobelia reached into her pocket again and took a deep breath.  “Now be sensible,” she said icily.  “Do you really want to lose your job over this?  You won’t find another for months, not at this time of year.  Will you really let your family go hungry this winter?”

Hamfast unclenched his jaw to tell her they’d manage somehow, even if he didn’t know exactly how at present.

“He’ll do it!” Frodo burst out suddenly.

“Good.”  There was a note of triumph in Lobelia’s voice.  “Punishment will be first thing in the morning, to give Frodo time to meditate upon his misdeeds.  And I’ll be there to see it’s done properly, so you can’t go easy on him, mind,” she added before leaving the room.

Hamfast turned to face Frodo.  “I appreciate what you’re tryin’ to do, lad, and that’s a fact.  But I won’t do as she asks.  It’s outlandish, that she would try such a thing.”  Corporal punishment was not uncommon among the Shirefolk, but rarely applied to hobbitlings in their tweens.  Such a drastic course of action would be reserved for only the most incorrigible.

“She’s been acting strangely, more and more,” Frodo said quietly.  “I don’t understand it.  But what about your family?” he repeated Lobelia’s question, albeit in a very different tone.

“We’ll manage, Mr. Frodo,” Hamfast said proudly, and he knew they would have to, for quite apart from his own feelings, his family would never forgive him for giving in to Lobelia’s preposterous demands.

“There must be another solution,” Frodo implored.

“None that I can see,” the Gaffer said grimly.  Frodo looked away, his face determined.

The next morning, Lobelia met Hamfast at the gate with a victorious smile.

He had been prepared to tell her he would resign his job if she continued to insist on punishing Frodo in this way, but the words died in his throat.

“He’s gone,” Lobelia said, tossing a bit of parchment in the air.  She laughed delightedly, her eyes a bit crazed.  “It’s mine, it’s finally mine.”  She went back inside and Hamfast picked up the note and put it in his pocket.

When he had finished his daily upkeep of the grounds, he went home and showed the note to Sam.

“’Dear Cousin,’” Sam read, “’I have gone to stay at Brandy Hall.  Sincerely, Frodo Baggins.’”

The note was short and curt, by hobbit standards.  Hamfast sighed.  It wasn’t right at all.

“That woman!” Bell exclaimed, slamming a pot on the table.  They all jumped at the unexpected outburst.  “I want Master Bilbo ta hurry back just so I can have the pleasure of seein’ him throw her out on her ear!”

“I thought we wanted him to go to Buckland,” May said uncertainly.

“Not like this,” Hamfast said gruffly.  “He only did it ta save my job.”

“Why didn’t he just stay with us?” asked Marigold.  “He seemed happy here.”

“Aye, that he did.”  Bell gave her youngest daughter a squeeze.  “I wish he could have, love.  I do hope he thought ta dress warmly, at least.  There’s a chill in the air, and him just gettin’ over a fever.”  Bell shook her head angrily and stalked out of the room.

Sam was still holding the note.  Frodo Baggins.  He traced the beautifully-formed letters with his finger.

56.  Back To Where It All Began

December 20, 1398

Frodo set out before dawn, grimly determined.  He didn’t trouble to be quiet as he gathered his things.  What did it matter if he woke the Sackville-Bagginses?  He was finally doing what they had wanted all along; they would probably give him a sending-off party.

Defeat tasted bitter, but Frodo didn’t look back as he descended the Hill and turned toward Hobbiton.  The village was nearly deserted at this hour, exactly as Frodo wanted.  On the Bywater road, he looked straight ahead as he passed Sack Top.  The sky began to lighten to the east; it looked like a clear, bright winter’s day, the very opposite of Frodo’s black mood.

He hesitated at the Ivy Bush Inn; the sun was nearly up, and he found he had no wish to meet anyone on the road.  He cut across the meadow next to the Inn.  He could follow the Water all the way to Buckland.

As usual, the sight of the river brought Frodo no peace, but he didn’t want to feel peaceful.  He tightened his warmest cloak against the chill breeze and continued on.

December 22, 1398

Frodo was exhausted.  He was already among the farms outside Buckland, and in a few hours he would be in the lands owned by his kin.  He could be at Brandy Hall by nightfall.  But Frodo could barely keep his feet under him; he had already been weakened by fever, and walking so far with hardly any rest had not helped.

A numb despair had long since replaced the rage that had driven him this far.  Frodo longed to rest, even sleep, though it was only mid-afternoon.  He sat down on the cold ground and got out his water skin.  Empty.  He sighed.  He could hear the river, but this part of it was rocky and swelled with winter rains, and he was some distance away in any case.

Frodo turned the other way and squinted through the naked trees.  He could see a thin plume of smoke rising from a small farmhouse close by.  A farm likely meant a well.  Frodo gathered his things and made for the cottage, driven by his parched throat.

There was a well, sure enough, but Frodo wasn’t so desperate as to ignore the bounds of politeness.  He went to the door, which was decorated with a colourful Yule wreath—was it Yule-time already?—and knocked.  He resisted the urge to lean wearily against the thick sod wall.  He could hear a baby squalling from somewhere inside the little house.  Finally there were footsteps, and then the door opened.

Frodo bowed slightly.  “Forgive the intrusion, sir, but would you permit me to fill my water skin from your well?”

“Why, o’ course, help yourself,” the farmer said, then paused.  “Why—Mr. Frodo?  Is that you?”

Frodo, startled, looked more closely at the hobbit before him.  He seemed an ordinary young farmer, light brown hair, in his early sixties perhaps, approaching middle age.  But he looked strangely familiar.  “Alar Goodbody!” Frodo exclaimed, suddenly realizing.  “How do you do, sir?  It has been a long time.”

“Indeed it has, indeed it has,” Alar grinned delightedly.  “Won’t ye come in?  Take supper with us?  You look like you’ve had a tirin’ journey.”

“Thank you,” Frodo said gratefully.

“Poppy-my-love, look who’s here!”  Alar closed the door behind Frodo and took his pack before he could protest.

The well-remembered former cook of Brandy Hall emerged from the back room and set a squirming baby in a basket.  “Who is it, Alar?”

Alar stooped over the basket to coo at the baby and Frodo came hesitantly forward.

Poppy’s round face lit up.  “Mr. Frodo!” she cried, and rushed forward to embrace him.  “What a wonderful surprise!  And just in time for Yule, too,” Poppy exclaimed.  “Well, let me look at ye.”  Her delighted expression changed to concern as she took in Frodo’s pale face and drooping posture.

He tensed, realizing she would want to know what had happened, and the last thing he felt like doing was telling her the whole catastrophe his life had become over the last few months.

But all Poppy did was press her lips together for a moment.  “You look as if a stiff breeze could knock you over,” she said finally, “but never mind that.  You’ve come to the right place for supper; Alar will tell ye I’m still so used ta cooking for a hundred or more, I always make far too much.”

“True enough,” Alar agreed.  “I’ll show ye where to wash up.”

Frodo enjoyed a delicious (and abundant) meal with Poppy, Alar, and their daughter, a tiny thing with big green eyes and honey coloured curls they had named Emerald.  He was struck by how altered Poppy and Alar were as a married couple; they each seemed more sure of themselves, and somehow more light-hearted, than either had been alone.  At least he could congratulate himself on helping to bring them together, even if he had done nothing else worthwhile in his life.

The excitement of meeting old friends gave Frodo a surge of energy, but that soon wore off, leaving the tween nodding off into his afters.  Alar fixed him a bed in the main room, and Frodo remembered nothing else till morning.

December 23, 1398

“You’re more than welcome ta stay and celebrate Yule with us,” Alar said after second breakfast.

Frodo hesitated.  Both Alar and Poppy had tactfully refrained from inquiring into his affairs, for which he was grateful.  And they seemed to sense that he was reluctant to go on; it was tempting indeed to spend a few more days here, among pleasant company, with nothing to think on or worry about, and no vast warren of tunnels filled with inquisitive relations.

But Frodo had to face his kin sometime.  Suddenly, he just wanted the whole thing over with; he couldn’t simply refuse to face what had happened.  Saradoc needed to know what Lobelia had done, and Frodo needed to face the possibility that no one spoke of in his presence: the possibility that Bilbo was not coming back.

He arrived at Brandy Hall just after luncheon.  He looked at the gatepost on which he had perched years ago, lonely and wretched, waiting for Uncle Bilbo to come for a visit.  He touched the post lightly as he passed but didn’t look at it again.  He arrived at one of the side entrances and stepped out of the way reflexively as a gaggle of shrieking youngsters surged past, bundled in scarves and cloaks to play outside.

Two of the children abruptly detached from the group and reversed course.

“Frodo!” screamed the taller one, jumping up and down in excitement.  The shorter one simply ran forward and attached itself, leech-like, to Frodo’s legs.

“Merry!  Pippin!”  Frodo’s heavy heart lifted slightly, at the sight of his favourite little cousins.

“Oh, Frodo, I can’t believe you’re here!  What luck!  First Pippin came with his family, and now you’re here, oh!” the sixteen-year-old paused to launch himself, flying squirrel-like, at Frodo for an enthusiastic hug.

Frodo crouched down to Pippin’s level.  “And how are you faring these days, Master Pippin?”

“Very well,” the eight-year-old said solemnly.  “I’m glad you’ve come.”

Frodo fairly melted under Pippin’s adoring gaze.  He kissed the little lad on the forehead.

“Where are your parents, Merry?” he asked reluctantly.  “I need to speak with them right away.”

January 2, 1399

“I’m worried about him,” Esmeralda confided to her husband.  “He’s not adjusting well.”

“He’s only been back a week,” Saradoc said.

“Over a week,” Esmeralda corrected.  “He goes off by himself at every opportunity, he scarcely talks to anybody but Merry and Pippin.  He’s a tweenager, Saradoc!  He ought to be flirting, playing pranks, anything!”

Saradoc sat down.  “Does it feel as if we’ve had this conversation before?”

“Aye, a hundred times,” Esmeralda sighed.  “It’s just like when he first came to live with us, after Drogo and Primula…”

“He feels abandoned,” Saradoc said.  “Again.  Bad enough what happened to his parents; for Bilbo to up and vanish on top of that, it’s no wonder Frodo doesn’t feel like talking to anyone.”

“Do you… do you think we did right, letting Bilbo adopt Frodo nine years ago?  Everyone said something like this might happen, that Bilbo might go off again and not come back…”

“Except we know Bilbo intended to come back,” Saradoc said quickly.  “He loves that boy.”

“Drogo and Primula never intended to leave Frodo either, but the outcome is the same either way,” Esmeralda reminded him.

Saradoc had no reply for that, and they sat in silence for awhile, looking out the window of their parlour. 

“Is there anything we can do about those vile Sackville-Bagginses at least?” Esmeralda asked at length.

Saradoc looked down.  “We can discover where the will is hidden, or the fourth witness,” he said.  “Our resources are much greater than Frodo’s.  If he considers Bag End his home, then the least we can do is get it back for him.  I’d also like to make some inquiries into the records fire and burglary; if Lobelia is behind them, she should be punished.”

But when the question was put to Frodo, the tween was disinterested in Bag End.

“Bag End isn’t my home,” he said quietly.  “Without Bilbo it’s just a smial.  Lobelia is welcome to it.”

Saradoc didn’t fail to notice that Frodo spoke as if he did not expect Bilbo to return.  “Bilbo will come back, if he is able.  You know that, don’t you, Frodo?”

Frodo didn’t reply.

“He would never willingly abandon you,” Saradoc pressed.

“I couldn’t really blame him though, if he did,” Frodo said dully.  Saradoc was too surprised to think of a response.

No one knew where Frodo disappeared to every few days.  Most of the residents of Brandy Hall remembered how Frodo had behaved similarly, years ago, when he had last lived there.  Saradoc and Esmeralda knew all was not well with Frodo, but since their efforts to talk to him failed, they thought it best to allow him the time he needed to be alone, reassuring him at every opportunity that he still had relations who loved him and would do whatever he needed.  If only he would tell them what he needed...

Merry followed Frodo one day, feet silent on the nearly frozen ground.  It was Frodo who’d taught him to walk silently, in fact.  Frodo who’d taught him how to creep into the pantry, undetected, and creep back out with his pockets full of mushrooms.

He felt bad using Frodo’s own tricks against him, but then he remembered he was trying to help his cousin, so maybe it wasn’t quite so bad.

Thus encouraged, Merry rounded the corner a minute after Frodo and concealed himself behind a rotted stump.  He spied his cousin opening a door that had been half-covered with weeds.  Merry frowned; he hadn’t known there was an abandoned smial here.  He spotted a glimmer of sunlight reflecting off a pane of glass, and crept forward to peer in the window.

Frodo was walking slowly around the dusty room, eyes downcast.  Suddenly he paused, crouched down, and picked something from a crack between floorboards.  Merry watched as Frodo examined the object, but he couldn’t tell what it was.  He pressed his nose against the glass, and evidently the movement caught his cousin’s attention.

Frodo looked up at him, his expression quickly changing from alarm to exasperation.  He rolled his eyes and gestured for Merry to come round to the door.

“Were you following me?” Frodo asked incredulously when Merry opened the door.

“Yes.”  Merry hung his head, suddenly afraid that Frodo might be angry.  Some of the older lads at Brandy Hall would throw him in the swine barrel, at the very least, for following where he wasn’t wanted.

“Why?” Frodo asked.

“I was worried about you, Cousin Frodo,” Merry admitted.  “I wanted to see where you’re always disappearing to.”

Frodo sighed.  “You shouldn’t worry about me, sprout.”

“You’re not angry I followed you?” Merry asked hopefully.

“No,” Frodo eyed Merry.  “Just don’t do it again.”

“What is this place?” Merry wanted to take advantage of Frodo’s talkative mood.

“This is where I used to live.”

Merry looked around sceptically.  “Why is it so dusty?”

“No one has lived here since my parents died.”

“Oh.”  Merry paused.  “Why are you here now?”

Frodo was silent for so long, Merry was sure he wasn’t going to answer.  “I’m not sure,” he admitted finally.

“Miss your parents?”

Frodo looked at him.  “I can barely remember them.”

“Truly?”  Merry frowned.

“I was very young when they died.  Four years younger than you are now.”

Merry hesitated, but he really wanted to know.  “What happened?”

There was a long pause.  “I’m told they drowned in a boating accident.”

“You were told?  You mean you don’t remember?  Where were you?”

Frodo was beginning to look irritated.  “Nobody knows for sure.  I may have been there, but I don’t remember.”

“Goodness!”  Merry was impressed.  He remembered the mysterious thing Frodo had picked up.  “What’s that you found?”

Frodo looked down at his hand in surprise, having forgotten anything was in it.  He opened his fingers slowly, to reveal an old bit of wood that might once have been a spool of thread.  It was empty, and the wood was cracked down one side.  “Nothing, just a bit of old rubbish.”

“Oh.”  Merry looked up to see Frodo’s stony expression and bit back his next question.  “Can we go back now?” he asked instead.

“All right,” Frodo said reluctantly, still fingering the spool.  Then he saw Merry watching him and dropped it carelessly on the ground.  “Let’s be off, then.”

Merry followed his cousin out the door, still not quite sure what had happened, but the grim look on Frodo’s face kept him quiet.

“What are you making, Mama?”

Azure eyes smiled kindly down.  “This?  This is to be a new shirt for you, my little love.”

He fingered the clean white linen as she stitched nimbly away at the cuff.  It looked as if it just might fit over his own wrist.

“Why?”

“Because you’re growing like a weed, Frodo-lad.  I can scarce keep you in clothes!”  

He watched the tiny stitches appear, as if by magic, in a neat, even line under Mama’s flashing needle.

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose we feed you too much.”

He looked up in alarm, but the bright eyes were twinkling with amusement, and he smiled.

“Why?”

“Because we love you, of course, and want you to grow up big and strong.”

“Why?”

A sigh.  “Come sit on Mama’s lap, Frodo, that’s it.  You can wind a spool for me, would you like that?”

He nodded, and held the little wooden spool carefully so he wouldn’t drop it.  Mama tied the thread on for him and wound it around a few times to get him started, and then only his hands were on it.  He wound carefully, the tip of his tongue poking out just a bit, he was concentrating so hard.

“That’s it.”  Mama went back to sewing, and they were quiet for awhile.  Frodo kept winding, trying to make his spool as neat as the ones Mama made herself, which were there in her sewing basket.  Round and round went the white thread.

But no matter how hard he tried, it didn’t look as nice as Mama’s.  In fact, it looked a mess.  Frodo frowned and undid some of his work, determined to do better.  Mama looked up and watched him for awhile, but she said nothing and, smiling, went back to her work.

He was getting frustrated.  A lot of thread was on the spool now, and it didn’t look any better.  His hands were too clumsy, not like Mama’s clever hands.  The spool slipped out of his hands then, and rolled away on the floor, trailing thread.  Frodo watched all his careful work undone and started to cry.

“Oh, Frodo, Frodo, don’t be troubled, my love!” Mama said.  She put her arms around him and held him tightly, and he sobbed into her apron.  “There, there.”  Her hand began to rub his back, soothingly, until the awfulness didn’t seem so near.

He peeked out again to see if he’d imagined it all, but there was the spool, lying on the floor, thread still attached only where Mama had tied it.

His face crumpled again at the sight of all the pretty thread undone, but before his tears could flow anew, Mama scooped him up and held him against her shoulder, so that he was facing the other way.  Mama’s quick footsteps took them over to the fallen spool, and she crouched down to pick it up.  Frodo tightened his arms around her neck, but the arm supporting him never faltered.

Then they were back in the chair, Frodo on Mama’s lap.

“Well now, see here, this is the problem,” Mama said as if everything made sense now.

He twisted around to look, tears forgotten.  “What?”  He didn’t see anything remarkable about the empty spool.

Mama pulled off the end of the thread and held up the spool to the light.  “Oh, I should have realized, yes, I should have.”

“What, Mama?”  He wriggled with impatience, trying to get a better look.

“This is one of those special spools, Frodo-lad.  This one just wasn’t meant to have thread on it.”

“Why?”  She let him hold it, and he turned it over and over in his hands, looking closely.

“Why?  Well, look at this little crack here.  Do you see it, Frodo-lad?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“That looks like a nose to me.”

“A nose?”  Frodo laughed.

“Yes, a nose,” Mama said primly.  She leaned over and scooped up a charred twig from the hearth. 

Frodo watched, fascinated, as she drew two eyes on either side of the nose, and a smile below.  He crowed with delight and seized the spool.  “Because the thread would cover up his face, is that why, Mama?”

“That’s exactly right,” Mama confirmed.

Frodo clambered down from her lap and went outside to play, the spool clutched tightly in his hand.  It had a short, squat shape, and not really any legs, so he decided it was probably a Dwarf.

When they were almost home, Frodo surprised Merry by taking his hand.  Merry looked up to see that Frodo’s expression had softened.

“I’m sorry I’m not any fun, Merry,” Frodo said quietly.

Merry stopped, concerned.  “Everyone’s worried about you, Cousin Frodo.”

“I know,” Frodo said.  “I wish they wouldn’t.”

Merry impulsively hugged his startled cousin.  “If this is how you’re going to be, then I’ll just have to be twice as fun until Uncle Bilbo comes back, to make up for you being a stick in the mud.” 

Frodo couldn’t help smiling, much to Merry’s delight, although the younger cousin wasn’t sure if it was a result of the teasing, or his assumption that Bilbo was coming back; for Merry was well aware of what folks said about that. 

Or maybe it was the hug. 

Merry hugged his cousin again, to check, and Frodo’s smile widened.  Yes, definitely the hug.  He rested his cheek against Frodo’s waistcoat and squeezed more firmly.

57.  Frodo’s Folly

Late January, 1399

Frodo went for a solitary walk after supper one evening, and found himself at the gate where he had awaited Bilbo’s visits to Brandy Hall, more times than he could count.  He ran a hand lightly over the post where he had often perched; he was much to big to sit there now.

Frodo swallowed past the lump in his throat.  Would he ever know what had happened to Bilbo?  For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine his beloved uncle on the path in front of him, walking toward the gate in the twilight.  He would be singing a walking song, perhaps.  Grasping a stout stick, which would thump the ground in time with Bilbo’s singing.

“Frodo, my lad!” he’d call, upon catching sight of his favourite nephew.  “What are you doing out here alone, so late?” 

Frodo’s heart clenched a little at the concern he heard in Bilbo’s voice.  He slid to the ground, resting his back against the post and pulling his cloak tighter against the chill air.  He couldn’t go any further, even in his own imagination.  His mouth twisted with scorn at his own folly.  He allowed the image to fade from his mind’s eye, and gazed instead at the dark path, now illuminated only by starlight.

“Wasn’t I worth coming back for?” Frodo whispered.  But in his heart he already knew the answer.  He had never fit into Bilbo’s life, and he had been foolish to try.  He would have done better to stay with Saradoc and Esmeralda, all those years ago.  He had been too young to understand the risk he was taking, becoming fond of someone like Bilbo.

Still, the foolish part of him that wouldn’t listen to reason still wished for Bilbo’s return.  Just to know he was safe, even.

Frodo awoke from his stupor when he glimpsed a patch of paler darkness against the dark night, in the exact spot his imaginary Bilbo had been a moment ago.  A slow, shuffling gait reached his ears.  Frodo wondered dully who would be coming in so late.  Some old farmer, perhaps.

But the form solidified into a familiar shape.  Frodo was certain he had taken leave of his senses, for the apparition before him looked exactly like Bilbo.

Frodo didn’t move as the old hobbit approached.

“What in the name of—” Bilbo halted in astonishment.  “Is that you, Frodo?  I very nearly trod on you!”

Frodo rose slowly to his feet, his mind grappling with this impossible reality.  “Bilbo?”

“Well, you are indeed a welcome sight, my boy.”  Bilbo groped for him in the darkness and found Frodo’s shoulder, which he gripped tightly.

The warm solidity of Bilbo’s grasp finally woke Frodo from his shock, and he reached across to place his hand over Bilbo’s.

The rest of that night passed in a daze.  Bilbo’s arrival in Brandy Hall created quite a stir, and it was very late before any of them went to bed.

“But where have you been all this time, Bilbo?” Frodo asked desperately, whenever he could get a word in around the chattering Brandybucks.  But each time, Bilbo would look into Frodo’s pale, vulnerable face and say firmly, “It’s a long story, Frodo-lad, and I can’t abide telling it tonight.”

Eventually Frodo fell silent, telling himself not to be so insistent.  And he could understand that Bilbo might simply be exhausted; the old hobbit was pale and drawn, and leaned heavily on his walking stick.  In fact, Frodo decided the next day when he saw Bilbo walking in the garden, his uncle had quite a pronounced limp.  All he could do for the moment was watch, however; every time he saw Bilbo over the next fortnight, he was surrounded by hobbits asking for the latest news from Bree, which he had passed through on his way back to the Shire, or by crowds of excited children.  Ten years ago, Frodo supposed, he would have been one of those children, clamouring for the attention of wonderful old Mad Baggins, who told the best stories and played the most delightful games.

Had nothing changed after all?  Was Frodo nothing more to Bilbo than any of these?

One day, Frodo was sitting in an isolated alcove of the kitchen, having a quiet cup of tea.  He was surprised when Bilbo joined him, with no hangers-on for once.

“There you are,” Bilbo began.

“Have you been looking for me?” 

Bilbo looked up at the edge in Frodo’s voice, and Frodo cursed himself for sounding like a petulant child.

Bilbo, however, tactfully ignored Frodo’s tone.  “Saradoc told me what happened,” he said, leaning forward.  “And I don’t want you to worry about a thing.  We’ll set out for Hobbiton in a few days and put things to rights.  I am more sorry than I can say for what you endured at the hands of that dreadful woman.”

Frodo looked at Bilbo’s earnest expression and tried not to feel hurt that his uncle had gotten the story from Saradoc, rather than asking Frodo himself.  “What about what you endured, Bilbo?” Frodo burst out.  “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

Bilbo’s lips thinned.  “It is not a tale I wish to tell at present,” was all he said, and made to leave.

“Your will!” Frodo said quickly.  He was more desperate to make him stay than to know the answer, but he went on doggedly.  “Where did you hide the third copy of your will?  Was it in Bag End at all?”

Bilbo sighed and looked away.  “It was hidden in my mattress, I’m afraid.  Lobelia probably found it the first time she changed the sheets.”

Frodo closed his eyes, letting it sink in.

“I am terribly sorry,” Bilbo said hurriedly.  “I ought to have told you where it was.  But I never imagined—the other copies—but that’s no excuse—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Frodo said thickly.  “It’s over now.”

Bilbo nodded uncomfortably.  “Well... well, I’ll let you get back to your... tea,” and the old hobbit took his leave.

And so it went for the rest of that day, and the next.  Bilbo was unflinchingly cheerful most of the time, even going so far as to participate in the boisterous social goings-on at Brandy Hall, much to the amazement of Frodo and anyone else who remembered the old hobbit’s reclusive tendencies.

The next morning, Bilbo surprised Frodo in his room.  Merry had just gone off to wash his hands before second breakfast, and Frodo was putting away the toys he had been amusing his young cousin with.

Bilbo hesitated in the doorway until Frodo looked up.

“Time we were away, eh, Frodo-lad?” he said with a wink.  “Are you ready to go home?”

Frodo said nothing, for although he’d been waiting to hear those words, actually hearing them had inexplicably set his stomach churning.

Bilbo cleared his throat when the pause dragged on.  “Is—ah—is anything the matter, Frodo?”

“No,” he replied.

“Well... good, then.  Excellent.”  He looked around at the books that littered the room, and empty teacups, and some of Pippin’s toys in the corner.  “I guess I’ll leave you to your packing, then.  We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow, so you’d best get started.”

“Bilbo?”  Frodo’s query stopped the old hobbit’s hasty exit.  “Where were you, all this time?  What happened to you?”

Bilbo cleared his throat.  “I came back as soon as I could, Frodo,” he said a little defensively.

“That isn’t an answer,” Frodo insisted.  “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

“If you can’t trust my word on the matter, then nothing I tell you can help, Frodo,” Bilbo said stiffly.  “How could you know every word wasn’t a lie?”  The old hobbit turned and left the room abruptly, face like a storm cloud.

“I didn’t mean—”  Frodo was speaking to an empty room.  He sat down on the bed, stung by Bilbo’s words.  He hadn’t meant to question his uncle’s word.  Of course he could trust that Bilbo had returned as soon as he could.  But Frodo felt a prickle of conscience even as the thought crossed his mind; he remembered all the times he’d told himself that Bilbo didn’t want to come back at all.

But it could still be true.  Bilbo’s sense of honour surely wouldn’t allow him to abandon the heir he’d legally adopted, but his behaviour since his return only confirmed Frodo’s suspicions that Bilbo had realized his life held no place for Frodo.  The old hobbit just didn’t think anything could respectably be done about it.

Frodo looked around at all the belongings he needed to pack, and went outside instead.

Frodo managed to avoid Bilbo until just before dinner, when the old hobbit caught him by the elbow on the way into the dining hall.

“Frodo, I went by your room earlier.  Why ever haven’t you started packing yet?” Bilbo said.

“I’m not going back with you.”

Bilbo stared at him, heedless of the crowd swirling past on their way to supper.  “What did you say?”

“I’m not going back,” Frodo repeated firmly.  “I’ve trespassed on your kindness long enough.”

Bilbo looked stunned.  He collected himself after a moment and said, “I don’t know what you’re about, but this is no time for childish tantrums.  We’ll have an early start tomorrow, and—”

“I’m perfectly serious,” Frodo interrupted indignantly.  “You’ve more than done your duty by me and I thank you for it.  But I won’t burden you any longer.” 

“Frodo—”  Bilbo’s reply was lost as Frodo plunged back in among the throng of hobbits going to supper.  He found he had no appetite, but he bolted down a meager meal, imagining the food would strengthen his resolve if nothing else.  He kept a careful watch for Bilbo, but the old hobbit did not appear, for which he was grateful.  He didn’t think he could bear another encounter without crumbling. 

“It is for the best,” Frodo reminded himself firmly as he slipped back to his room later.  He didn’t belong in Bilbo’s life, and as the old hobbit’s honour wouldn’t allow him to admit the adoption had been a mistake, it fell to Frodo to take the decisive action.  Yes, this would be better all around.  Bilbo would be free to do as he pleased, and Frodo… would be content with that knowledge.

But Frodo’s evening was far from restful.  His mind would not be easy.  He paced in his room, half afraid that Bilbo would seek him out there, but no one disturbed him.  He thought briefly of going to say goodbye to Merry and Pippin, before recollecting that there was no need, as he wouldn’t be leaving the next day.

He undressed and went to bed early, but did not sleep.  He lay in the dark, wide awake, he knew not how long before he heard a quiet tapping on his door.  It was by now quite late; everyone else had retired hours before, and Frodo had heard nothing since then except the February wind rushing through the grasses overhead.

“Frodo?” Bilbo’s hushed voice carried well enough in the silent Hall.  “Are you yet awake?”

Frodo rolled onto his stomach and turned his face to the wall just in time, as Bilbo chose that moment to softly open the door.  “Frodo?”

The tween tried to keep his posture relaxed.  He knew it was childish to feign sleep, but he didn’t trust himself to speak to Bilbo just now.

But the old hobbit did not take the hint.  After hesitating a long moment in the doorway, Bilbo stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Frodo kept his breathing slow and even as Bilbo padded softly across the floor to his bedside.  He watched the flickering candlelight move across the wall before him and come to rest as Bilbo set his candle on Frodo’s nightstand.

Nothing happened for another long minute, and then Frodo was surprised to feel his bed shift slightly as Bilbo perched himself on the edge of the mattress.  He supposed Bilbo was studying him now.  He concentrated on the rhythm of his breathing.

“Very well,” Bilbo sighed quietly.  “I will speak, even if you will not listen.”

Frodo waited, curious to hear what his uncle could have to say, and dreading it at the same time.

Bilbo took a long while to gather his thoughts.  Finally, he said, “I have been wandering the fields since I saw you at supper.  I walked a good many hours, thinking.  And I think I may have been unfair to you.”

Here Bilbo paused again, and cleared his throat.  “When I thought you doubted me, I felt my failure keenly.  My failure to provide for you.  I could not refuse to go with Gróin and Rorin, but I’ll never forgive myself for what happened in my absence.  I did not bring it up with you because I assumed you wouldn’t wish to discuss your suffering with the one who caused it.”

Frodo started, but Bilbo didn’t notice as he rose at that moment and began pacing the small open space in Frodo’s room.

“Then, too, I wanted to protect you, but perhaps I tried much too hard.  I accused you of not trusting me, when I should have seen that I could trust you with the truth.”

Bilbo lapsed into silence, and Frodo simply listened to him pace.  The sound was uneven, as though his uncle was still limping.

Finally he felt the bed shift as Bilbo sat down again.  Frodo’s ruse was severely put to the test when a hand drifted lightly over his hair and came to rest on his back. 

Bilbo sighed.  “It is only, my dear Frodo, that I would wish to spare you the inglorious details of my latest adventure.  I would wish to spare you from all ills this world has to offer, in fact.  But I see that in my bumbling efforts I only wound up hurting you.”

The old hobbit stroked his back slowly, again lapsing into silence.  Frodo could feel the warmth of Bilbo’s hand through the fabric of his nightshirt.  It took all his control not to react in any way, for Bilbo was not normally given to such caresses, and Frodo was not used to receiving them.

Bilbo seemed to notice then that the blanket had pooled around Frodo’s waist, and reached over to pull it up to Frodo’s shoulders.

“If it will make any difference, I will tell you what happened,” said Bilbo, allowing his hand to come to rest on Frodo’s back once more.  “We did succeed in heading Dwalin off before he got to Moria, but we needn’t have hurried.  We found his party near the southern edge of Mirkwood.  They never progressed any further, and, unhappily, never found any sign of Balin.”

Frodo hardly dared breathe at the sadness he heard in Bilbo’s voice, and the old hobbit paused again to gather his thoughts.

“They were trapped, you see.  The area was swarming with trolls, trolls of a type I’d never seen before.  In appearance they were not too unusual, covered in horny scales, and tall, taller than Men.  But they carried hammers and bucklers in their claws, which as you know is peculiar, for trolls are not normally intelligent enough nor skilled enough to use such tools.  There were hundreds of them, thousands maybe, and they were not at all deterred by sunlight.

“It was all Dwalin’s party could do to stay concealed.  We hid with them in their cave, for months.  Finally, with our supplies nearly exhausted, the trolls moved further south.  We all went back to Erebor, where I was forced to remain many weeks to recover from a broken leg.”

Frodo couldn’t help stiffening in horrified surprise at this news.  How dreadfully like Bilbo to keep such information from those who cared for him most, and now to think it worth mentioning only off-handedly.  But Frodo was distracted from his heartache by Bilbo’s next words.

“Please come home with me tomorrow, Frodo-lad.  Saradoc told me you’ve said on several occasions that you didn’t think I wanted to come back, that I might have gone for good.” Bilbo sighed heavily.  “Oh, Frodo.  I can’t deny that I would like to leave the Shire one day.  Spend my last days with the elves, perhaps.  But to leave in such a manner?  To leave you, knowing you still had need of me?  Never!  I love you more than my own life, Frodo.  I know I don’t say such things often enough, but never doubt that I feel them.  Your remaining in Buckland won’t change anything; I certainly couldn’t leave now, not with this rift between us, whether you come home to Bag End or not!”

Bilbo scoffed.  “Not want to come back?  Do you know, dear Frodo, what got me through the gloomy months in that cave, day after day, nothing good to eat, nothing to do but listen for trolls and fear discovery?”

Frodo couldn’t bear to hear any more.  He sat up to face Bilbo, finally giving up the flimsy pretence of being asleep.  Neither of them said anything for a long moment.  Bilbo looked even more haggard by candlelight, reminding Frodo of his resolve at the moment when he needed it most.  How far had Bilbo walked, on a leg that was not fully healed, in his haste to return?  How many risks had he taken because of the responsibility he bore for Frodo?  The fact that Bilbo loved him, or thought he did, changed nothing, really, except for making what Frodo had to do more difficult. 

“Bilbo... please, just leave me be,” Frodo said woodenly.

There was a moment of silent shock on Bilbo’s part.  The awkward pause seemed to stretch on endlessly.  “Of... of course,” the old hobbit stammered at last.  “I beg your pardon.”

Frodo could see the hurt in Bilbo’s expression as he rose to his feet.  But he could think of nothing to say to say to soften his callous words, and so he stayed silent as Bilbo left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

He didn’t sleep a wink that night for the crushing shame he felt at hurting his uncle.  But Bilbo would be better off without him; he simply didn’t realize it yet.  And Frodo would have peace of mind, if nothing else. 

When he heard Old Rory, Merry's family, and some of the other denizens of Brandy Hall bidding farewell to Bilbo the next morning, he did not go out to say good-bye.  He could not face Bilbo again, not after last night.  Instead he watched from his window as the old hobbit slowly progressed toward the East Road, finally disappearing from view.  But it was for the best, Frodo told himself again.  Now Bilbo was free.

58.  Happy Birthday, Samwise

February 15, 1399

“Thankee, Sam,” Marigold said delightedly, admiring the wooden combs he had carved for her hair, the last of his birthday presents.

Bell and May began to clear away the luncheon dishes, for Hamfast had to get back to work soon.  It was an early spring, and there was plenty to be done in the garden.  Lobelia would not like it if she noticed Hamfast had taken such a long break, but today was a special occasion.

“I’d best be off,” the Gaffer sighed.  “Happy birthday, Sam-lad,” he added gruffly.

“Can’t I come with you, Dad?” Sam asked impulsively.  He hadn’t been allowed to work at Bag End since Lobelia had moved in, and he had long ago given up asking, but the early spring breeze through the open window carried the enticing scent of fresh earth, and Sam couldn’t help himself.

“Now, Samwise, ye know we’ve talked about this,” Bell reproached him.

“You said yourself there’s plenty ta do, and I know I could help,” Sam said earnestly.

Hamfast sighed.  “Aye, you’d be of help, right enough, but the answer’s still no, and that’s a fact.”

“You do a wonderful job on our garden, Sam,” May attempted to console him after the Gaffer had gone.

“Thanks, May,” Sam said, and tried to cheer up for her sake.

It was now over two months since Frodo had gone away, and six months for Bilbo.  Nothing seemed right anymore.  Sam missed them both dreadfully, both for himself and for his family.  Frodo’s going had indeed saved the Gaffer’s job, but the Sackville-Bagginses continued to be difficult masters, and the happiness of Sam’s whole family seemed to be under a cloud.  Hamfast never said a word about Lobelia’s treatment of him, but he was always tense and grim when he returned home in the evening. 

Bell, too, tried to hide her dislike of their new employers.  She did the washing and other chores that the S-B’s needed done, for they needed the extra money, but she never sent any of the children up the Hill to fetch the laundry.  She had the Gaffer bring it, or she went herself.

In addition to being kept away from Bag End, to which they had no desire to go now in any case, the Gamgee children were forced to take into account Lotho’s comings and goings.  Lotho had been of age for two years now, but he showed no indication of outgrowing his propensity for ‘youthful indiscretions’, as Lobelia had once termed them.  And without Frodo there to oppose him, he grew even bolder.  Daisy had been coming home alone one evening and had met Lotho, who had said things no gentlehobbit would say.  After that, none of the Gamgee lasses went about alone if it could be helped.

But Sam couldn’t very well wish for Frodo’s return merely to deflect Lotho’s attention from the Gamgee family.  They were all aware of the price Frodo had paid for protecting them; in December, when Hamfast discovered that Frodo had been struck by Lotho, it didn’t take them long to figure out it must have happened immediately after Frodo defended Daisy from Lotho’s boorishness. 

Sam still remembered the morning of that conversation.  The Gaffer had gone up to Bag End the night before to get some tools, nearly a week after Frodo stopped coming around.

“What d’you mean, Dad?” Halfred asked, startled.

“I mean that the reason Mr. Frodo hasn’t been coming by to teach our Sam is he didn’t want us seein’ the great bruise on his jaw,” the Gaffer said tersely.

There were cries of surprise and dismay from all of them, as they stood gathered in the crowded kitchen.  Little Marigold gripped her mother’s hand tightly, and Bell looked furious. 

But Daisy promptly burst into tears, and wouldn’t be consoled.  “Don’t you see?  Mr. Frodo stopped comin’ the day after he helped carry me packages home, when Mr. Lotho saw us and was so rude!  Lotho only hit him ‘cause of me!”

“It ain’t your fault,” Halfred told her.

“But Frodo told him off for sayin’ such things in front of me.  Told him off right sharp, too.”

“I think he would’ve done that whether you were there or no,” quiet May spoke up.

“May’s right,” Samwise said.  “Mr. Frodo wouldn’t let that Lotho say nothin’ bad about any of us, if ye follow me.”

“No, he surely wouldn’t,” Bell sighed, putting an arm around Sam’s shoulders.

Sam smiled a little at the memory.  Frodo was one of the best hobbits he knew.  He wished it was within his power to be of service to the young master, somehow.

He stepped outside to watch his father trudging back up the Hill.

“Don’t fret, Sam,” Halfred said, closing the door behind him.  “Everything will come out fine, you mark my words.”

Sam looked at him.  He had rarely heard his brother speak so seriously. 

“Say, Hal, who’s that?” Sam asked suddenly.  Past Halfred’s worried face, he had caught sight of someone else coming up the Hill.

Halfred turned around.  “That… that looks like Master Bilbo!”

Sam’s heart leapt.  Of one mind, the brothers fairly flew down the Hill toward Bilbo.

“Master Bilbo!  Oh, Master Bilbo!”  Sam cried, unable to restrain his tongue.

Bilbo recovered quickly from the unexpected welcome.  “Hullo there, Sam-lad!” he said jovially.  “You know, I do believe you’ve grown!”

They all laughed.

“It’s right good ta see you back safe, sir,” Halfred said, grinning.

“Thank you indeed,” said Bilbo.  “And how are you, and all your family, Halfred?”

“Oh, well enough, thankee,” Hal said, “but all the better now you’re back, if ye follow me.”

“Sir, where is Mr. Frodo?” Sam burst out, able to hold back the question no longer.  “Did ye not come through Buckland on your way home?”

“Sam!” Halfred admonished.

But Bilbo’s smile vanished, and he looked suddenly sad.  “I did come from there, yes, and saw Frodo.  He sends his regards, but he has... decided to remain where he is at present.”

“Oh,” said Sam, disappointed.  “When is he comin’ back here?”

“Sam!” Halfred said, exasperated by Sam’s impertinence.

Bilbo didn’t answer the question, but smiled and told them to run along.  “I expect I’m in for a spot of bother up there,” he nodded toward Bag End, “and I’d best get it over with.”

He left Hal and Sam looking at each other in consternation.

“He didn’t say when Mr. Frodo was comin’ back,” Sam pointed out.

“You really oughta mind your manners better, Sam,” Halfred sighed.  “Like as not he’s havin’ too much fun with Mr. Merry ta think of returning just yet.”

“Aye,” Sam said doubtfully, watching Bilbo’s slow progress up the Hill.  He started when he realized Halfred was following the old hobbit.

“Well, come on,” Hal prompted.  “I wouldn’t miss this for all the apples in the West Farthing, would you?”

“How’s this any better manners than askin’ when Mr. Frodo is comin’ home?” Sam asked indignantly, struggling to catch up as Hal ducked around some shrubbery to stay off the road.

“Oh, aye, it’s much worse,” Halfred agreed cheerfully, “but only if we get caught!”

Sam shook his head and followed his brother, hoping Bilbo didn’t catch them following where they weren’t invited, or, worse, the Gaffer.

Luckily, Hamfast seemed to be occupied in back of the smial, and the Gamgee lads were able to stand unnoticed just outside the hedge when Bilbo strode up to the round green door.

The old hobbit seemed to hesitate a moment, and then he raised his walking stick and rapped sharply.

Sam strained to listen as the door finally opened, but as far as he could tell, Bilbo said nothing at all; he merely stood with his arms crossed.

A moment later, a wailing scream pierced the quiet afternoon.

Halfred winced and Sam clapped his hands over his sensitive ears, but the screaming went on and on.

When Lobelia finally quieted, Bilbo spoke.  Sam couldn’t make out what he said, but it looked like only two words.

Lobelia gave a final shriek of outrage, stamped her foot, and flounced back inside.  Bilbo followed her and closed the door.  They waited in silent tension a good fifteen minutes, but heard nothing else.

Halfred and Sam looked at each other.  “What d’you reckon?” Sam whispered.

“Lobelia’s got what’s coming to her, that’s sure,” Halfred said gleefully.

“Aye,” Sam returned.  “But what did Master Bilbo say ta her?”

“Who cares?  Just the sight o’ him did for the old bat.”

Sam had never heard Halfred speak so rudely of anyone, and he turned to his brother in surprise.  Hal’s eyes were twinkling merrily.

A sputtering giggle escaped Sam.  Halfred shoved him playfully and chortled.  Sam shoved back and collapsed on the mossy ground, laughing helplessly.

“Hush!  Sh—sh—sh!”  Halfred gasped out, and collapsed beside Sam, biting his own wrist.

Sam followed Hal’s example and tried to muffle his giggles with both hands.  They lay on the ground, wheezing hysterically like a pair of beached sticklebacks, until a gruff voice spoke from above.

“If you’re quite finished, then,” the Gaffer said.

Both lads sat up guiltily, but Hamfast didn’t look nearly as angry as he ought to have been.  “Come inside,” was all he said.  “Master Bilbo has some work for ye.”  He strode away again, but not before Sam caught a definite smirk in the Gaffer’s customary dour expression.

Halfred and Samwise found Bilbo sitting calmly in the kitchen, having a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, which he very politely offered round.  They each took one, and sat nervously eating while Bilbo sipped his tea placidly.  They could hear a great ruckus at intervals, thumps and clatters from different parts of the smial, punctuated by the occasional shriek of fury.

“As you can hear, the Sackville-Bagginses are moving out,” Bilbo said at long last.  “Lobelia and Otho are packing up as we speak, and I would be much obliged if you’d assist in loading the cart when it gets here.  You’ll be quite well compensated.”

They both demurred that payment was unnecessary, but Bilbo waved them off.  They left the old hobbit in the kitchen, looking gravely out of the window.

Everyone was busy that afternoon.  A dumbstruck Lotho was sent to rent a cart and pony.  The Gaffer brought in empty boxes and crates from the cell, into which Lobelia and Otho swept their possessions.  Sam and Halfred picked up the filled boxes and loaded them into the cart Lotho brought.  The latter disappeared soon after the cart was parked in front of the door, despite Lobelia’s demands for assistance.  Sam was glad of it, for the hate-filled look Lotho gave him when they met in the front hall gave him chills. 

By suppertime the whirlwind of activity was over.  Otho sat grimly in the cart, holding the rented pony’s reins and staring straight ahead.  Lotho, who had returned once the work was done, sat behind his father, scowling.

“Got everything?”  Bilbo asked mildly as Lobelia came outside.

“Yes,” she sniffed, not quite meeting Bilbo’s eyes.

“Excellent.  Then you can be off, just as soon as you pay these good fellows what we agreed would be a fair wage.”

“You agreed,” Lobelia snapped.

Bilbo didn’t reply, and Lobelia finally relented, her mouth twisting with distaste.  She opened her handbag and counted out some coins, which she handed to Halfred. 

Sam’s jaw dropped.  It was enough to feed their family for a fortnight.  His jaw dropped even further when she counted out the same amount again and handed it to Sam himself.  He had never held so much money in his life.

Finally, Lobelia counted out more coins, at least twice as much as she had given Sam and Halfred, and gave it to the Gaffer.

Otho handed her into the pony cart and she settled herself with a disdainful sniff.

“Hold on now,” Bilbo said suddenly, just as Otho was about to lift the reins.  “I believe you still have something of mine.”

“Oh, you—you!” Lobelia shrieked.  “Here, take it then!” and she withdrew a small, shiny object from her pocket and flung it at Bilbo, who, surprisingly, caught it deftly.  “Well, what are you waiting for?” she screamed at Otho.  Evidently her husband didn’t move fast enough for her liking, for Lobelia seized the reins from his hands and slapped the pony so hard he set off down the Hill in a mad dash, Lobelia’s screams of fury gradually fading in the distance.

“That went rather well,” Bilbo commented.

Samwise watched him slip the gold ring into his waistcoat pocket and give it a quick pat.  The old hobbit did not wear a look of triumph, or even satisfaction.  He only looked resigned, and a little sad. 

Sam sighed.  Things were not yet as they should be, but life had taken a step in the right direction, at least.  All in all, a satisfactory birthday.

59.   Merry’s Game

February 18, 1399

“I can’t fathom it, Merry.  What are you, sixteen now?”

“Seventeen next month,” Merry retorted.  “And how will I ever know if you don’t stop your dawdling and tell me?”

Frodo sighed.  “The Harfoots came West first, and the Stoors came after.  The Fallohides crossed the mountains last of all.”

“Oh,” Merry said, disappointed.  “Berilac was right, then, though he was just guessing.  I would’ve thought the Fallohides crossed first.  I have Fallohidish blood, don’t I?”

“Yes, Merry.”

“Don’t look at me like that, Frodo,” Merry said defensively.  “It isn’t as though they teach ancient history in school, you know.”

“Well, they ought to,” Frodo said.  “You’re going to be Master of Buckland one day; it isn’t right that you should be ignorant of where we came from, of the world outside the Shire.”

“I know lots of genealogy, and all about the different crops grown in each of the Farthings,” Merry said modestly.

“What about outside the four Farthings, and Buckland?” Frodo asked.  “Do you know what crops are grown by Men, for instance?”

Merry thought hard.  “Pipe-weed?” He suggested finally.

Frodo shook his head.  “Pipe-weed grows wild in the south, but Men don’t smoke it.”

“They don’t?” Merry was astonished.  “Why ever not?”

“Putting it into pipes was a hobbit invention,” Frodo said.  “Most folk in foreign parts just think the flowers smell nice.”

“How peculiar,” said Merry.  “Did you read that in a book?”

“No, Bilbo told me, and Gandalf told him.  I don’t know of any books with such information, at least not in the Shire.”

“Well, someone should write one,” Merry declared.

“Maybe I should speak to your tutors,” Frodo mused.  “Surely there’s space in the curriculum for some early history, or at least foreign geography.”

Merry snorted.  “You know more about those things than any of my tutors, Frodo.  And they don’t like me much, anyhow.”

“They’d like you more if you sat still and paid attention,” Frodo smiled.

Merry slouched down in his chair and stuck out his tongue.

“I could tell you about these things, if you have an interest,” Frodo offered.

Merry twisted in his chair to look out the window.  “But the sun is out!” he protested.  “You promised we’d walk to the Marish after elevenses and have a picnic!”

Frodo laughed at the pitiful expression on his young cousin’s face.  “I didn’t mean now, silly Brandybuck.  Of course we’re still going on our picnic.”

“Oh,” Merry said.  “Well, when did you mean?  Aren’t you going back to Hobbiton any day now?”

“What?  No!” Frodo exclaimed.  “Who told you such a thing?”

“I heard Mama say so to Old Rory just yesterday.”

“Well, she was mistaken.”

“Oh.”

The cousins were silent for a moment.  Frodo spun around once on the rickety library stool he sat on, thoughts drifting toward elevenses.

”Well, when are you going back to Bilbo?” Merry asked at length.

Frodo looked at him.  “I’m not,” he said shortly.  “I’m staying here.”

“For how long?”

“Forever!” Frodo couldn’t keep the exasperation out of his voice.  “I’ve decided to live at Brandy Hall, at least till I come of age, and then I may strike out on my own.”

“Oh.”  Merry looked at him strangely, as though he didn’t quite believe him.

But weeks passed, and Frodo gave every sign of being at Brandy Hall to stay.

It was the first really warm day of spring that Saradoc stood watching Merry and Frodo in the garden.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” Esmeralda said, leaning across him to open the window.  “You have good weather for inspecting the fields this afternoon.”

“That’s true, dear,” Saradoc replied absently.

Esmeralda paused to follow her husband’s gaze.  “Seems to be settling in for good, doesn’t he?” she said softly.

“Yes, he does.”  Saradoc frowned.  “And he seems happy.  But I can’t help feeling it’s just for show.”

“Poor Bilbo,” said Esmeralda.  “He asked us for advice, and we told him to leave as planned and go on home; that we would bring Frodo along to Bag End after he’d had time to sort himself out.  What must he think now?”

“He’s a good influence on Merry, at any rate,” Saradoc observed, thoughts turning once more to Frodo.  “Our lad has grown into quite a handful, and he’s not even reached his tweens.”

Esmeralda smiled distractedly.  “Frodo was a handful at that age, too, although in a different way.  He was so independent, we never heard about the scrapes he got into till they were long over.”

“He still is independent.  Takes after Bilbo that way.”

“Stubborn fools, the both of them.”

Saradoc looked up at the tremor in his wife’s voice.  “What’s the matter, love?”

“I just wish there were something we could do, to set things to rights.  Frodo’s suffered so much, and we’re partly responsible.”  She choked a little on the words, and turned away to dab at her eyes.

“What do you mean, Esme?” Saradoc exclaimed, fumbling for his handkerchief.

“All those years he lived with us, after Drogo and Primula passed… I can’t help but think we could have done better.  We didn’t give him near enough attention, especially after Merry was born.  And—well, he seemed to practically raise himself, didn’t he?  Never asked for anything, never needed any help—and we were so busy, both of us.”

“I fear you are right, though it pains me to say it,” Saradoc said slowly after Esmeralda had lapsed into silence.  “But you musn’t forget, we were young, untried... we had just gotten married, for goodness sake.  We did our best, the best we knew how, and Frodo has turned out extraordinarily well.”

“He has,” Esmeralda agreed with a fond smile.  “But he isn’t happy, it’s plain as day, whatever he may say about it.  First his parents, then us, and now Bilbo—Frodo has convinced himself he can’t depend on anyone.  He’s isolated himself from those who love him.  I’ve tried speaking with him—he acts as though he hasn’t a care in the world.  Yet he hardly has a word to spare for anyone, except Merry.”

“This place holds bitter memories for him, and he’s made them all the worse for cutting himself off from Bilbo,” Saradoc said slowly.  “He remembers parts of the day they drowned, did you know that?  Bilbo told me.  Frodo remembers them arguing.”

Esmeralda turned to him in surprise.

“And he remembers being on the boat with them,” Saradoc added.

“How can that be?”  Esmeralda gasped.  “He was found ashore, not far from Crickhollow.”

“We may never know for certain what happened that day,” Saradoc said.  “But he knew enough details that Bilbo believes he truly was on the boat with Drogo and Primula.”

Esmeralda turned back to the window with a faint smile on her lips.  “You see?” she said.  “He confided these things in Bilbo.  We can at least congratulate ourselves on predicting they would be good for each other, when we advised the adoption.”

“Now if only Frodo would recollect the love he bears Bilbo, and that Bilbo bears him, all might be well,” Saradoc mused.

“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” Merry said.

Frodo shrugged.  “Sorry, Merry-lad.  Must be the heat.”

Merry shifted position on the grass and plucked his shirt away from sticky skin.  It was unseasonably warm for early March.  “Must be,” he agreed.  He thought privately it was rather more than that, but he had enough hobbit sense to know that any comments about tweenaged mood swings would be ill advised.

Frodo yawned and tipped his straw hat down to shade his face.

“I’m bored,” Merry announced, rolling over to look up at the cloudless sky.

Frodo sighed.  “You aren’t the only one.”

Merry frowned unhappily at this response.  “Can’t you think of something for us to do?  Something amusing?”

Frodo smiled a little.  “Why must I always think of something?  I think it’s your turn, cousin.”

“I don’t have any ideas, Frodo,” Merry protested.

“Use your imagination,” Frodo said.  “Your friend Berilac says you have quite a vivid one.”

Merry sat up.  “When did you talk to Berilac?” he asked curiously, for Frodo mostly kept to himself.

“I didn’t,” Frodo replied.  “I heard him talking yesterday about some ridiculous tale you told Old Rory to explain how the two of you tracked mud all over his study.”

“You see?  I only use my imagination when I have imperative circumstances to motivate me,” Merry retorted, but Frodo merely smiled.

Merry’s eyes drifted toward the sparkling surface of the Brandywine.  “Wait, I know what we can do.  Let’s go swimming!”

Frodo sat up slowly.  “I don’t think so.”

“Why ever not?” Merry demanded.

“It’s only March!” Frodo said.  “Who swims in March?”

“But it’s so hot…”

“I think I feel a chill in the air.”

Merry looked at him incredulously.

“If this warm spell holds till tomorrow, then we’ll go,” Frodo finished lamely.

“All right,” Merry agreed reluctantly.

The weather did hold.  Every day that week, Merry tried to coax Frodo into swimming, but every day Frodo had some excuse. 

By the end of the week, all the young Brandybucks were in the river at every opportunity, and Frodo ran out of excuses.

“So, swimming today?” Merry asked briskly after second breakfast.

Frodo sighed.  “Why don’t you go with some of the others?” he suggested.  “I’m not feeling very well.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Frodo,” Merry told him.  “Come with me!  Or have you forgotten how to swim after all those years among the queer folk of Hobbiton?” he teased.

“I’m not going,” Frodo said sharply.

“Then I won’t either,” Merry declared.  “I’d rather be with you than go swimming, if those are my choices.”

Frodo surveyed his cousin in mounting exasperation.  He was beginning to feel a little guilty that he was the reason Merry hadn’t yet joined in the fun all the other young folks were having with their swimming parties.  “How about if I come and watch?” he offered finally.

“Good enough,” Merry assented with a brilliant smile.  “Let’s be off!”

All that morning, Frodo sat on the grassy banks and watched Merry splashing with the other teens and tweens.

“Come on, Frodo!  The water’s fine!” some of the older lads urged.  But Frodo just smiled and shook his head.

He did eventually move to a large rock at the edge of the pool so he could cool his furry toes, as Merry discovered when the others went home for luncheon.  He hauled himself out to sit beside Frodo.

“Did you have a nice morning?” he inquired politely.

“Yes, thank you,” Frodo replied.  “And you?”

“Splendid.”

“Delighted to hear it.”  Frodo inclined his head.  “Well, Master Meriadoc, shall we go home for our repast?”

“Not yet,” Merry said.

“Oh?” Frodo had never known Merry to delay the eating of a meal.

“I rather fancy some conversation first.”

“Oh?” Frodo said more warily, suddenly worrying how much Merry might have guessed.

“Promise you won’t be angry?  I couldn’t bear it if you were angry with me, Frodo.”

“How could I be, when you ask forgiveness before you even begin?” Frodo said dryly.

Merry fidgeted.  “Are you—you’re afraid of the water, aren’t you?”

Frodo stared at him, not expecting such a direct question.  “I... How did—how long have you known?”  Frodo didn’t think he had ever been so embarrassed.  And here he thought he had done such a good job of averting Merry’s suspicions.

“I’ve wondered for years.  But I didn’t know for certain till this week.”

“So, you’ve known all this time you have a coward for a cousin,” Frodo said bitterly.

“What?  No!”  Merry was genuinely alarmed by Frodo’s reaction.

“The Bucklander who’s afraid to go swimming, that’s me.”  Frodo fiddled with a blade of grass, not wanting to look at Merry just now.

“I think you’re the bravest hobbit I know,” Merry said simply.

Frodo looked up at this innocent declaration, but the open admiration on his young cousin’s face made him feel even worse.

“You should find someone else to revere,” Frodo told him, flinging away the blade of grass and watching it float off on the slow current of the Brandywine.  “I’m nothing much.”

“That’s not true,” Merry objected.  “You’re brave, and kind, and steadfast.”

“I’m nothing but a burden on the folk who love me,” Frodo said softly.

“Frodo!”

“My parents were arguing the night they died, did you know that?” Frodo continued so quietly that Merry had to strain to hear.  “For all I know, he pushed her in, and she pulled him in after.  And Bilbo—for years I kept him from doing what he really wanted to do.”

Merry was quiet for a long time.  He’d heard that dreadful story of Frodo’s parents, but Saradoc and Esmeralda had told him it was a lie.  He couldn’t imagine that Frodo himself really believed it.  But Frodo had never spoken to him like this before, and he wanted to think carefully before responding.

Something clicked suddenly.  “Is that why you don’t like the water now?” he asked.  “It makes you think of how your parents drownded?”

“I suppose so.”

Merry frowned and thought hard.  He didn’t know how to convince Frodo he was wrong about the other things, but there had to be some way he could help.

“It seems to me that you would like the water more if you had some happier memories to think about when you were in it,” he said slowly.

Frodo hesitated.  “Perhaps,” he said finally.

“Then come in with me now!  I’ll use my vivid imagination to think of a game we can play.”

“Merry...”

“I know you can’t think you’re a burden on me, Frodo.  If anything, I’m the one plaguing you to distraction,” Merry teased.

Frodo smirked at that but made no reply.

“Please?  I promise you can get out after five minutes, and I won’t say a thing.”

Frodo hesitated again.  “All right, five minutes,” he said at last.

Merry gave a whoop and clambered off the rock. 

Frodo undressed slowly as Merry paddled backward.  “What are we playing, then?” he asked, resigned.

“We’re playing... ‘Rory Says’,” Merry replied.

“Won’t that be a little ridiculous, with only the two of us?”

“Special rules: every time you miss one, that’s a bite of your dessert you have to give me tonight.”

Frodo laughed.  “You’re a scoundrel, Meriadoc,” he said, but stepped gamely into the water.

“Rory says, wade over to where I am,” Merry began promptly.

Frodo hesitated a long moment, but finally obeyed, sloshing slowly over to Merry, where the water was waist deep.

“Quack like a duck,” Merry ordered.

Frodo laughed and folded his arms.  “You’ll have to do a great deal better than that if you expect to have any of my dessert,” he said sternly.

“Clearly,” Merry sighed.  “All right, Rory says quack like a duck.”

Frodo quacked, and Merry didn’t giggle.  Much.

“Rory says, bend down till your shoulders are in the water,” Merry said, demonstrating.

Frodo followed suit.

“Rory says, pretend to be Aunt Gardenia.”

“What’s that, Sonny?  ‘Pick out a hen for dinner’?  I’ll do no such thing, let the servant do it!” Frodo said in a high, wavering voice.

Merry applauded the uncanny impression of their elderly and hard-of-hearing aunt.  “Very nice, Frodo.  Now splash me.”

Frodo immediately slapped the water in front of him, sending an arc directly onto Merry, whose sputters quickly turned to gleeful laughter.

“Ha!  Rory didn’t say!  I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist,” he shouted.

Frodo groaned, realizing his mistake.  “It’s been well over five minutes,” he told Merry, wading over to where he’d left his clothes.  “Time for luncheon.”

“Can we do this again tomorrow?”  Merry asked hopefully.

Frodo paused.  “All right,” he said.

Merry smiled and nodded and said no more about it, but inwardly he was leaping with delight.

The game became a daily ritual for the two cousins, and grew more boisterous every time they played, until the two of them were swimming races back and forth across the wide, slow-moving stretch of the Brandywine that was so popular with the young Bucklanders.

Frodo wistfully wondered sometimes what his Hobbiton friends would think if they could see him now.  He could picture young Samwise Gamgee, appalled at him for giving in to the queer Bucklander habit of playing in the river.

“What’s so funny?”  Merry demanded.

Frodo coughed.  “Just thinking of what the good folks of Hobbiton would say if they saw me swimming.”

Merry looked at him hard but said nothing.  Frodo marvelled, not for the first time, at the tact and good sense Merry had somehow developed of late.  He hadn’t mentioned Bilbo or Hobbiton again, for which Frodo was grateful.  But he suddenly found himself wondering what Merry really thought about it all, and asked him.

“You should go back to Bilbo,” Merry replied immediately.

Frodo stared at him, surprised by the rapid answer.  “I thought you liked having me here,” he joked feebly.

“This has nothing to do with me.”  Merry would not be distracted.  “You belong with Bilbo; Bag End is your home.”

“I can’t,” Frodo said stubbornly.  He remembered the numbness when Bilbo finally reappeared; the realization that Frodo was keeping him from his true desires.  He remembered the hurt look on the old hobbit’s face when Frodo had coldly refused to return to Bag End; it made his insides squirm.  But it was for the best.

“Why?”

Frodo hesitated, for he had no real answer for that.  “It is... complicated.”

“Is it?” Merry asked curiously.

Frodo frowned and looked away.

A/N:  I’m planning one more chapter after this one, but that will be epilogue-ish in nature.  If you’ve made it this far, you’ve read over 150,000 words of story, and kept up with updates that often came months apart (as much as 6 months sometimes, I think?).  I am, frankly, amazed anyone is still managing to follow this.  :P  I salute you!  And I thank you for reading.

60.  Burying the Past

1368

Gorbadoc Brandybuck raised a bushy eyebrow as he refilled Bilbo’s glass.

“You’re looking remarkably well,” he observed sharply.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, well accustomed by now to his youthful appearance.

“And what brings you to my humble Hall at this time of year?  You’re off to see the elves, or somesuch, I’ll wager.”

“Or somesuch,” Bilbo agreed pleasantly, sipping at his wine.

Gorbadoc made a harsh choking sound that might have been a laugh.  Or a cough.  Bilbo never could tell.

“Well, I haven’t much news for you, I’m afraid,” Gorbadoc went on.  “But did you hear I have a new grandson?  Primula’s first little one.”

“Oh yes?” Bilbo said in a tone of polite interest.

“A Baggins, as a matter of fact.  Prim threw in her lot with your folk, you know.  Married Drogo Baggins.”

”Well then, here’s to the new Baggins,” Bilbo said gallantly, raising his glass.

“You share a birthday with him!” Gorbadoc exclaimed suddenly, snapping his fingers.  He chuckled hoarsely.  “Fancy that.”

“How peculiar,” said Bilbo.  “Perhaps I should introduce myself while I’m here.”  He wasn’t particularly fond of screaming infants, and rather the reverse, but he didn’t like to offend the Master of Buckland if he could help it.

1380

“Frodo, darling, sit down and eat your breakfast.”

“I’m too excited, Mama!  I want to go to the spring feast!”

Primula laughed.  “That’s not for hours yet, love.  You must learn to be patient.” 

“Do I have to wear my blue waistcoat, Mama?”

“Yes, darling.”

“But it itches!”  Frodo squirmed as she kissed him.

“We all have our burdens to bear,” Primula said, smiling fondly.

“Can I stay up with the big children and hear Uncle Bilbo’s stories?” he asked.

Primula thought.  “You may stay up until ten o’clock,” she decided.

“Hooray!” he cried, finally accepting the toast that Primula pressed into his hand.

1368

“Why, Bilbo Baggins!” Drogo said.  “Haven’t seen you in an age, it seems.”

“Drogo, my good fellow,” Bilbo said.  He didn’t know Drogo well, and had sometimes thought him a bit simple, but he was a good-enough-natured hobbit who wasn’t as bothered by Bilbo’s oddities as certain other members of the family.  Bilbo felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t visited sooner.   “I was in the area and thought I should like to meet the new Baggins I’ve heard so much about, who had the good fortune to be born on my birthday.”

Drogo laughed.  “Well, come in and meet him, then!” he said cheerfully.

Bilbo followed his cousin to the parlour, where the new mother was singing a wordless lullaby as she sat knitting.

Bilbo greeted her softly and went to the cradle, relieved that the child was asleep.  At least he wouldn’t have to endure any screaming.

He peered at the infant with detached curiosity.  Little Frodo was cute as a button, as they usually were at this age, he supposed.  On his head was a patch of downy dark hair, already starting to curl.  His skin was fair and his cheeks rosy. 

The tiny rosebud of a mouth opened in a yawn, and the dark lashes fluttered.  Bilbo meant to draw back, but something held him in place.  He caught his breath when he realized the infant was looking at him, sapphire eyes regarding him gravely.

But Frodo didn’t scream.  He blinked up at Bilbo, and then favoured him with a wide, toothless grin.  Bilbo couldn’t help smiling back.

1380

"Make haste, my dear," Primula said shortly.

"Primula, darling, I said I was sorry!" Drogo replied in exasperation, setting down the tater he'd been peeling for an impromptu supper.

"You had plenty of time to hire the pony and wagon, Drogo," Primula snapped. "There's really no excuse I can give my family!"

"I haven't made any excuses!" Drogo protested. "All I can offer is an alternative."

Primula stood slowly from where she had been unbuttoning Frodo's best waistcoat. "We haven’t the time to walk. You're speaking of the boat," she said severely. She hurried Frodo into his room and shut the door so he wouldn't hear the argument, but the eleven-year-old pressed his ear to the knothole no one else knew about.

"If we leave right now, we'll be at Brandy Hall in plenty of time for the feast," Drogo persisted.

1372

“Oh no, this is too precious for such a little one,” Drogo protested.  “He’ll surely break it, Bilbo!”

“No he won’t, will you, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo said fondly.

The faunt shook his head vigorously, holding the little wooden oliphaunt as carefully as though it were made of precious gems.

Primula laughed.  “You may keep it, darling, if you promise to be careful.  Now what do you say to your Cousin Bilbo?”

“Thank you, Uncle!” Frodo cried.

They all laughed.  “We really ought to correct him,” Primula said doubtfully.

“Nonsense.  I think it’s charming,” Bilbo said.

1380

Frodo shivered. The day was overcast and the river was high, and he hated it when his parents fought. Perhaps it seemed all the worse for it happened so rarely.

Drogo lifted his son into the boat, but Primula ignored his proffered hand and climbed in without assistance. Drogo sighed and cast off.

As they began to move with the current, Drogo took the tiller. The rushing river, swelled with rains, sped the little boat along quickly, but there was no impassable debris in sight, so Primula's fears proved unfounded.

Frodo leaned over to watch the muddy water eddying round the prow.  He couldn’t wait to get to Brandy Hall for the spring feast. When he looked up he found Drogo smiling at him slightly.

"Don't get seasick, do you, Frodo-lad?" he asked with a wink.

"No, Papa," Frodo replied, and Primula smiled too, reluctantly it seemed, and reached out to pull him into her lap—

1378

Bilbo looked out over the crowd of little upturned faces and tried not to smile.  The snow had been falling for hours outside, but here in Brandy Hall all was snug and warm.

“And that was the end of Smaug!” he finished.

His audience gasped.  Some of the older children cheered and applauded before ambling off to see what was left on the Yule banquet tables.  The youngest Bucklanders were yawning, and some had fallen asleep where they sat.  But not the littlest one of all; Frodo still watched him with wide, shining eyes.

“And then what happened, Uncle Bilbo?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“Why, nothing happened!  That’s the end of the story, dear boy,” Bilbo said patiently.  He had grown fond of this little sprout, despite (or more likely because of) his rather un-hobbitlike curiosity.

Frodo came forward as the other children dispersed.  “But what happened to Bard?” he pressed, placing one little hand on Bilbo’s knee.  “After he shot Smaug?  What happened to him?”

Bilbo smiled at the minute nine-year-old.  “He re-founded the township of Dale.”

Frodo nodded as though that was exactly what he thought ought to happen.  “And he lived happily ever after?”

“To the end of his days,” Bilbo confirmed. 

“There you are, Frodo!  It’s time you were abed, young hobbit.”

The two of them looked up at Primula.

“Can’t I stay up, Mama?” Frodo pleaded.  “I have more questions!”

Primula shook her head.  “We must be up early, darling, for Yule is ended and we are going back to Crickhollow.  Now say good night to your Uncle Bilbo,” Primula ordered sternly, but the corners of her mouth were twitching. 

Bilbo never knew quite what to make of Primula; she was his first cousin, but she did not invite close acquaintance with many, and sometimes she seemed rather severe.  But those who paid close enough attention perceived a warm heart and impish sense of humour.  

“Good night, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo said solemnly.

“Good night, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo replied.  “And farewell, for I am going myself tomorrow, back to Hobbiton.”  He watched the little one stagger sleepily off with his mother, hand in hand.  It had been a pleasant visit.  Quiet, but pleasant.

1380

—the little boat entered the rapids then, while Primula reached for him, and a sudden impact jarred Frodo to the deck.

“Drogo, what—”

“We’re taking on water!”

“Frodo!  Stay right where you are, darling, and hold on tight.  Here’s the bailer, Drogo.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, the hull…”

“Frodo!  Hold on to Mama…”

“We’re breaking up, hurry!”

“I can’t get free, my leg—”

“Oh, my love!”

“Quick, take Frodo.”

“I won’t leave you!”

“Drogo, my love, hurry!”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know, but I forgive you.”

“I can save you both, I swear.  Here, Frodo, come to Papa.  We’ll get you to safety first…”

Frodo’s legs were kicking frantically in chill water, even as he clung, terrified, to the railing.  The boat swung madly, veering now toward the riverbank and now toward the rocky center.  The shiny yellow hull was coming apart in great chunks.

“I won’t let you fall in.”

Strong hands grasped Frodo under the arms and lifted him bodily into the air.

“Tuck your head in, there’s a good lad,” Papa whispered, and then Frodo was flying through the air.

Frodo thought that if it was strange for a hobbit to swim like a fish, it was even stranger for one to fly like a bird.  Then he collided with the mossy riverbank and lay there with the wind knocked out of him.

After awhile, he sat up.

“Papa?  Mama?” he called.

Only the roaring of the river filled his ears.

1380

“Such a tragedy.  We found him wandering near Crickhollow, poor little thing.  He must have gone looking for Drogo and Prim when they didn’t come home.  They were on their way to the feast, it seems, although we don’t know why they left him behind.  Under the weather, maybe.  We’re trying to find out who was supposed to look after him.”

“Where is he, Esmeralda?” asked Bilbo.  “I didn’t see him at the funeral.”

“Still confined to his bed.  The healer couldn’t find any injuries, but Frodo’s clothes were soaked right through from the rain and he has a touch of fever.  And he won’t say a word, poor thing.  Hasn’t spoken since it happened.”

“What is to become of him?” Bilbo asked, aghast.

“Saradoc and I will take responsibility,” Esmeralda said.  “We have no children of our own yet, after all.  He’ll live here in the Hall, where he has plenty of relations, too.”

“Yes… yes, of course,” Bilbo murmured.  “I suppose that’s best.”

1380

Frodo had long since been changed out of his wet clothes, and he was tucked warmly in the little bed he used when he visited Brandy Hall.  But he was still cold, deep inside where the blankets didn’t touch him.

“Frodo?  Cook tells me you haven’t eaten all day.  Will you take a little broth?”

He looked emptily at his aunt, but he didn’t know how to tell her about the coldness, so he said nothing.

Esmeralda sighed and looked back at him sadly.

1380

“Frodo?”

The pale little figure in the bed gave no indication of hearing him.  Bilbo cleared his throat and tried again.  “Frodo-lad, do you remember me?  I’m your Uncle Bilbo.  I last saw you over a year ago, at Yule.”

Bilbo sighed and went to gaze out the window.  He didn’t know why he felt such a connection to, and responsibility for, this child.  He did not know in what way their fates could be intertwined, but he couldn’t ignore the promptings of his heart.

“Do you remember my last visit, Frodo?  I told you the tale of Smaug.  You liked it so much, you kept asking questions, long after the other children lost interest.”  Bilbo chuckled lightly at the memory.  “Wanted to know every detail, you did.  Upon my word, your curiosity grows with every passing year.  You kept asking questions right up until your mother came to put you to bed.”  Bilbo froze, wondering if he shouldn’t have mentioned the boy’s mother.  He wasn’t cut out for such situations, he really ought to leave before he added any more to the lad’s grief.

“Uncle Bilbo?”

Bilbo turned in surprise at the soft voice.  Haunted sapphire eyes watched him from a ghostly pale face.

“What is it, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo asked kindly.

No further words were forthcoming, but Frodo stretched out his arms in silent supplication.

Bilbo awkwardly picked up his little cousin.  He didn’t hold small children very often, if he could help it, and the solid weight in his arms felt strange at first.  Then two small arms slipped trustingly around Bilbo’s neck, and a dark curly head came to rest on his shoulder.

Bilbo held the child close and lowered himself into the bedside chair.  He felt an unaccustomed surge of protectiveness as he looked down at the warm hobbitling in his lap.

1382

“Frodo, where are you?  Time to come inside, lad!”

Frodo heard Saradoc calling, but he didn’t reply.  Not yet.  Uncle Bilbo was due tonight, and Frodo didn’t want to be tucked in bed when he arrived.  If he could delay for just another few minutes, perhaps it would be long enough.

Frodo yawned, head nodding.  On the other hand, waking up in the morning to find Bilbo there was exciting, too.

1385

Bilbo looked up from the book he’d borrowed from the Brandy Hall library and studied the bent head thoughtfully.  “You don’t play much with the other lads, do you, Frodo?”

The teenager looked up from his slate.  “I suppose not,” he replied.

Bilbo shifted position to allow a scullery maid to pass by him.  Frodo always did his schoolwork in the kitchens, for some reason.  “Whyever not?”

Frodo shrugged his shoulders.

“Did you enjoy the book I brought you last time?”  Bilbo decided to change tack.

“Oh, yes!”  Frodo exclaimed, smiling brightly.  “I meant to thank you again for that, Uncle.  Will you tell me more about Imladris before you go away again?  I have a good many questions…”

Bilbo laughed.  “Of course, my boy, of course.  You know you can ask me anything you like.”

Frodo went back to his schoolwork and Bilbo went back to his book, until Frodo spoke again, unexpectedly.

“The other lads my age don’t like Elves,” he said mournfully.

“No?”

“No.  Nor Dwarves, nor mountains, nor anything interesting.”

“Oh dear!” Bilbo said.

“They laugh at me sometimes,” Frodo added resentfully.  “They say I’m too old to listen to your ‘fairy stories’.”

“Good heavens, what a dreadfully dull bunch they sound,” Bilbo said, genuinely sympathetic.

“They are,” Frodo nodded.  “But they’ll see!  One day I’m going to be a part of your adventures, Uncle Bilbo.  I’m going to see things no hobbit has ever seen!”

Bilbo smiled at his spirited young cousin.  “I daresay you will, Frodo-lad.  I daresay you will.”

1390

Frodo held on tightly.  Uncle Bilbo was surely the kindest hobbit in middle-earth.

“You had better come and live with me, Frodo my lad,” said Bilbo, “and then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together.”*

Frodo lifted his damp face from Bilbo’s shoulder, and stared at his uncle in shock, as the meaning of those words sank in.  “Truly?” he said finally.  “You want me to live with you?”

“Of course, dear boy,” Bilbo answered.  “If you wish it, I mean.”

In answer, Frodo flung his arms around his uncle once more, and buried his face against Bilbo’s neck.

1391

Bilbo sat in the kitchen, waiting for his new heir to appear.  Frodo had only been living at Bag End a few weeks, but the lad seemed to be settling in to his new home well enough.  Had gotten rather quiet the last several days, though.  Bilbo was just going to ask young Samwise if he knew anything about it when they heard a step in the doorway.

“Frodo-lad! I thought a bit of a lie-in would do you good, but you look dreadful!” exclaimed Bilbo, dropping a piece of toast in surprise. “Whatever is the matter?”

The boy stared at him.  “N-nothing’s the matter, Uncle,” he stammered, to Bilbo’s consternation.

Samwise got to his feet and started to come forward. “Are them bruises still painin’ you, Mr. Frodo?” he asked anxiously, and then said “Oh!”

Bilbo looked at little Sam in confusion, before absorbing what he’d said.  He felt the blood drain from his face, as the pieces of the puzzle suddenly came together.

Frodo was guilty of nothing more then helping someone weaker than he, and that brute of a Sackville-Baggins had attacked him in vengeance.  How dare he touch Frodo?  How DARE he?

1391

Frodo shifted on the edge of the bed and looked at his uncle in wonder.

"Yes, I know why Lotho was angry with you. The Gaffer told me all about your coming to the aid of little Samwise." Bilbo’s fury seemed to have faded, and he rested his chin on the top of Frodo's head.

"I am so proud of you, my dear boy, and I wouldn't change you for all the riches in Middle Earth," the old hobbit whispered.

Frodo swallowed, and felt more tears rolling down his cheeks. He buried his face against Bilbo's chest and put his arms around his beloved uncle.

"And I certainly was not angry with you, Frodo-lad," Bilbo continued. "But regardless, there is nothing—do you hear me?—nothing that could make me regret adopting you."

Lifting his head slowly, Frodo peered up at Bilbo and saw such sympathy, love, and compassion in his uncle's face that he could hardly bear to look.

1395

“Why, Frodo, you’re trembling!” Bilbo said, frowning slightly as Frodo pulled away from the embrace.

“I’m afraid he had a rather nasty encounter,” Gandalf said. He explained quickly what had happened to Frodo, and Bilbo went pale as he heard of his young ward coming into contact with two such brutish Men.

“Here?” Bilbo whispered. “So close to our borders? Oh, dear...” He peered at Frodo in concern. “Are you all right, my boy?”

The tweenager nodded quickly.  “I was frightened, is all. They wanted me to lead them to the Shire.  They wanted to hurt me when I refused, but Gandalf came along just then.”

Gandalf and Bilbo both stared at him in the sudden silence that followed.

“When you refused... Oh, Frodo,” Bilbo murmured, pulling his nephew into another hug. “My brave lad!”

Late August, 1398

Frodo swallowed his bite of apple and looked up to smile at Bilbo.  “I feel quite well now, Uncle, truly.”

Bilbo nodded and sat down beside him on the garden bench.

“I’ve always been fond of sitting out here,” Bilbo remarked, looking at the well-maintained grounds with satisfaction.  “But the Gaffer has really outdone himself this year.”

Frodo laughed.  “That’s as may be, but don’t underestimate the contributions of the intrepid Samwise.  He’s quite enthusiastic about helping his dad, you know.”

Bilbo inclined his head in acknowledgement.

Frodo finished off his apple and studied the old hobbit surreptitiously.  Bilbo’s face in no way reflected his advanced years, but today his expression was unusually contemplative.

“Something on your mind, Bilbo?” Frodo asked lightly.

Bilbo started, then chuckled ruefully.  “I was just thinking… about the Free Fair.”

“Oh.”  They’d only arrived home from the Fair a few days ago.  Frodo had been dreadfully ill with heat stroke, but he was nearly recovered.

“I didn’t know you were such a good dancer,” Bilbo said with a sidelong glance.

Frodo looked at him, wondering why he was devoting such intense thought to his ward’s dancing skills.  “Neither did I,” he admitted truthfully.  There had been parties every night, giving Frodo ample opportunity to practice.

Bilbo laughed aloud.  “Oh, Frodo,” he said.  “I get the queerest notions sometimes… Do you ever feel as though we were meant to become dear to each other, as though our fates were intertwined?”

Frodo was accustomed to the odd things the old hobbit said sometimes.  He put his hand over Bilbo’s.  “Have you been over-sampling the Gaffer’s new batch of ale?”

“Perhaps.”  Bilbo squeezed Frodo’s hand.  “Perhaps.”

September 1, 1398

Bilbo squeezed the slender hands in his own, wishing he could protect their owner as easily.

“You should get some rest if you wish to be up early enough to see me off tomorrow,” Bilbo said finally.

Frodo nodded, already having known what Bilbo’s decision would be. “Good night, Uncle,” the tween said, finally favouring the old hobbit with a slight smile. He lifted Bilbo’s hand and placed a kiss on the back of it, and then he was gone.

Bilbo stared at the door for a long time after Frodo left, hopefully for bed.  The smial was quiet; Gróin and Rorin had already retired for the night.  It was a fine idea; they had a long journey ahead, and they were starting early. 

But Bilbo was restless.  He fingered his magic ring, on its thin chain in his pocket.  He got up and paced about his bedroom.  He ought to feel excited—he did feel excited—but his anticipation was coloured by an anxiety he had never felt when setting out on any of his other journeys outside the Shire.  He knew what it was, of course: anxiety for Frodo.  Never had he left the Shire since he had taken Frodo in; never had he left behind someone who depended upon him, someone whom he loved...

There was no choice, of course.  Bilbo had to go and help if he could, or forsake all loyalty he felt for his old friends.  And with any luck, he would be back in a few weeks and life would go on.  But the anxiety did not leave him.

He pulled out the ring and looked at it.  Here was something that always drove away his worries.  He sat down and admired the candlelight’s reflection on the gleaming golden surface.  Now here was something he could do, something he could do to protect Frodo.

Bilbo slowly slipped the ring off its chain and went to his desk.  He opened the top drawer.

But what if he needed the ring, to get out of a tight spot, as he had needed it before?

Bilbo hesitated. He thought of Gollum, keeping the ring in a hole in a cave. 

No.  He dropped the ring in the drawer.  He would leave it here, for Frodo, for his protection.  He could not rest otherwise.  He could not imagine what need Frodo might have of it, here in the heart of the Shire, but he would feel better just knowing the lad had it.  If Bilbo was delayed, or if he did not return… Frodo would be well provided for; Bilbo had seen to it that his papers were in order, at least.  But that was not enough; he wanted to know that Frodo had the ring, to use if the need ever arose.

Bilbo realized then that the ring was back in his hand.  Why was it so confoundedly difficult?  No! he told himself firmly.  I am leaving the ring for Frodo! 

He dropped it in once again, and closed and locked the drawer. 

March 12, 1399

Bilbo finished off his afternoon tea and sat back with a sigh, gazing out the window. The garden looked dreary, for it had been raining on and off all day.  He felt restless and out of sorts.  All he seemed to do these days was mope about and dwell on the past.  Bag End was so quiet without Frodo, he just couldn’t get used to it.  Not that Frodo had made a great deal of noise when he had lived here, of course, but somehow his presence had made the place livelier. 

He shook his head and stretched his legs upon the footstool.  Frodo had made his decision, but it was proving most difficult to bear.  Bilbo had taken up his daily routine since returning home, and tried his best to think on it no further.  But think on it he did, sometimes with hurt, other times with anger.  How had things gone so wrong?  His regard for Frodo had grown so over the years, he had thought the filial bonds too strong to break.

“Well, I was wrong, that’s all,” Bilbo said aloud to the empty sitting room.  He cursed his own sentimentality.  He was an old fool to have thought he could make things right for Frodo. 

Bilbo fingered his magic ring on its thin chain.  He was glad to have that back where it belonged, at least, if he could not have Frodo.  He picked up his book and tried to read, but the pitter-patter of rain on the Hill soon began to lull him.

Bilbo awoke with a start.  He looked about and slowly relaxed again.  The rain was much louder; perhaps that was what had woken him.

He suddenly realized he could hear another sound through the rainfall; a knocking sound.

“Now who would be out in this downpour?” he asked himself, annoyed at the interruption.

He got out of his comfortable armchair and went to open the door.

When he saw who was standing on his front step he came wide awake.

“Frodo!” Bilbo breathed in shock.

Large blue eyes watched him anxiously.  “Uncle...” the boy said when Bilbo didn’t move.  He shifted his feet in the puddle on the front step.  “I didn’t mean it.  I didn’t mean it!  Please let me come home—” 

Frodo was cut off by Bilbo seizing him in a fierce hug.

“My dear boy,” he said huskily.  “My son!”

Frodo was crying, sobbing against his shoulder, and his sodden traveling clothes were transferring icy rainwater and mud onto Bilbo’s clean waistcoat, but Bilbo didn’t mind in the least.

An hour later they were in the sitting room.  Bilbo had lit a fire against the storm’s chill, and Frodo sat watching the flames, basking in warmth and peace.  For he had indeed made peace with the past, and a feeling of rightness was upon him. 

He was well wrapped in blankets, for he had been soaked to the skin, and Bilbo had insisted.  He looked over at Bilbo, sitting silently beside him.  The old hobbit still looked the same, and Frodo found that the sight of him eased the memory of the long walk from Buckland.

The rain had only started that very morning, but still the three days’ journey had seemed interminable.  Frodo had been hesitant on first setting out from Brandy Hall, but with every step that brought him closer to Hobbiton, he grew more certain that he was walking in the right direction, at long last. 

He had gone to his parents’ smial to think, as he sometimes did.  He had gone to think of his parents and to dwell on what he had lost, but instead found his mind clearing.  He was surprised to realize how prominently Bilbo figured in many of his memories; he had been a part of the old hobbit’s life, and Bilbo a part of Frodo’s, practically since Frodo’s birth.  He had lost his parents, but he had gained something no less wonderful.  He was Bilbo’s heir, and perhaps it was always meant to be so.

Once he’d set out, he found he couldn’t wait to see Bilbo again, although he also feared the old hobbit’s reaction.  But when he’d begged Bilbo’s forgiveness for his obstinacy, and his rudeness, Bilbo had waved him off.

That’s all in the past, dear boy, he’d said.  Leave it buried there.  I’m just so very delighted you’ve come back, I can’t tell you.

And indeed, Bilbo’s delight had been so obvious, and so clearly sincere, that Frodo was ashamed to have thought the old hobbit was better off without him.  Bilbo had not used the freedom Frodo had given him to go off on new adventures; he had clearly been here at Bag End all the time, disheartened and regretful, all alone, and wishing for Frodo to come home.

“I think I’ll start our supper,” Bilbo said presently.  “Are you warm enough, my boy?”

Frodo nodded, but Bilbo slid an arm about his shoulders anyway.  Frodo looked at him and thought about all the things Bilbo had done and seen in his long life, all the dangers he had overcome and fears he had confronted.

“What is it, lad?” Bilbo asked when he noticed Frodo’s scrutiny.

“I wish I was brave.  Like you, Uncle Bilbo.”  It felt good to use Bilbo’s incorrect title again.

“Oh, Frodo… I think you must be the bravest hobbit I know.”

Frodo looked at him seriously.

“It’s true, dear boy.”  Bilbo smiled and cupped Frodo’s cheek for a moment.  Then he tucked the blankets more closely around Frodo, and got up and went to the kitchen to start their meal.  Frodo sat still for a long moment, feeling the lingering warmth on his cheek, and was glad to be home.

*paraphrased from The Fellowship of the Ring, page 44 in my edition.

A/N: This is it, the end of Anchored.  I first posted chapter 1 on Feb. 11, 2003.  And today is May 5, 2008.  Over five years!  How embarrassing.  But how grateful I am to you readers, who have put up with me for such a long time.  I especially want to thank those who’ve taken the time to review.  Your feedback is truly what kept me going all this time!  As you may or may not recall, I originally planned to have the Making of a Ringbearer be a three-part series.  I’m still thinking about that third part.  Anchored ended up being largely about Frodo's relationship with Bilbo; I didn't get to explore Sam, Merry and Pippin nearly as much as I wanted to.  So, I haven’t decided for sure, but it’s possible that I will indeed write a third part. 

A/N 2: Most descriptions of the party itself are taken from Tolkien’s Fellowship of the Ring, chapter 1.  Direct quotations are underlined.

61.  Aweigh

Bilbo was drifting, drifting slowly through a white mist on a gently rocking boat. He was dimly aware that he was dreaming, and he felt peaceful and unconcerned.

“Do not leave him until he is ready,” said a voice, and Bilbo understood immediately, as though they were continuing a conversation that had been interrupted earlier.

“I wouldn’t think of it!” said Bilbo indignantly, knowing somehow that the voice spoke of his leaving forever.

“Not now,” said the voice. “But one day, he will be ready.”

The year after Bilbo’s return to the Shire passed quietly enough.  The talk died down eventually, although general consensus held that Bilbo was madder than ever.  But Bilbo wasn’t bothered, and neither was Frodo.  Indeed, Bilbo began to notice a certain degree of maturity in his adopted heir.  Frodo had grown into an easy-going, independent, and capable young hobbit.  Their life together was different than before Bilbo had gone away, but no less happy.  In fact, Bilbo couldn’t shake the peculiar feeling that a change for the better had been wrought by all the turmoil of their separation.

Frodo still loved him dearly, that was obvious, but the tweenager no longer seemed to rely on Bilbo’s constant presence.  Frodo often made his own plans, going alone several times to Tookland and to Buckland, to visit friends.  Bilbo did not mind in the least, for Frodo seemed more content than Bilbo had ever known him to be.  He was quite a popular young hobbit around Hobbiton, always having time and thought to spare for a smile and a joke, or to lend a helping hand.  His ward had grown up, almost without Bilbo’s realizing it, and his pride in Frodo grew more with each passing day.

Sometimes Frodo seemed almost to look at Bilbo in a new light.  Bilbo wasn’t quite sure he understood it, but he sometimes nodded off in the sitting room after supper and woke to find Frodo watching him in concern.  And Frodo took charge of most of their meals now; the boy was becoming a fine cook, and Bilbo welcomed the chance to put his feet up and read a little, now that he had gotten used to the idea that Frodo didn’t need his help in the kitchen. 

That spring of 1400, a year after their return to Bag End, Frodo suggested a camping trip in the North Farthing.  They spent a pleasant few weeks in Bindbole Wood, for the weather was mild and the rabbits were plentiful.  They did not talk much, but merely enjoyed each other’s company and the beauty of the Shire in spring.  One day they hiked close to the northern border, and Bilbo found himself increasingly preoccupied with thoughts of the outside world.  He began to think about where he would like to spend his last days.

“Where would you go for your retirement one day, Frodo-lad, if you could go anywhere?” Bilbo asked.

Frodo looked at him.  “I think I know where you would go, Uncle.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow.  “And would that bother you?”

“No,” Frodo said with a fond smile, “but don’t be surprised if I join you there one day.”

“You would be most welcome, dear boy,” Bilbo replied, but he found himself surprised by Frodo’s response.

The rest of that spring and summer passed quickly but happily.  Frodo sometimes came upon Bilbo poring over the maps in his study.  The prospect didn’t sadden him as it once had, but it did concern him.  Bilbo was old, and getting older.  Frodo could tell, even if Bilbo didn’t look it.  They talked sometimes of planning a trip outside the four Farthings; Frodo knew that his favourite uncle was ready to quit the Shire, and to see far-off places, perhaps for the last time.  But Bilbo seemed to be at a loss, as though he didn’t know how to proceed, and Frodo wondered how to help him.

September arrived, and Frodo could hardly believe he was only a year away from the age of his majority.  It was an exciting thought.  His thirty-second birthday, and Bilbo’s one hundred and tenth, was the usual lively affair.  Summer passed into fall, and when the first frost heralded the coming Yule, they had an unexpected (but very welcome) visitor.

“Sorry to have missed your birthday, my boy,” was the first thing Gandalf said when the surprised tween opened the door.

Frodo laughed aloud and assured the wizard that his pleasure at seeing his old friend was in no way diminished by the timing.  “It’s wonderful to see you, Gandalf,” Frodo said warmly.

“And how is that rascal of an uncle of yours?” Gandalf inquired, dusting off his great boots before crossing the threshold.

“As queer as ever,” Frodo assured him.  “He’s taken to disappearing into thin air, you know, with the aid of that magic ring of his.”

“Indeed?” Gandalf looked a little disturbed.

“My cousin Merry saw him do it a few weeks ago, to hide from the Sackville-Bagginses,” Frodo said.  “But Merry didn’t know what it was he saw, of course, and I didn’t tell him.”

“It is perhaps better not to speak of such things,” Gandalf agreed, looking at Frodo thoughtfully.

“But let me get you some tea!” Frodo exclaimed, remembering that Gandalf must be weary.  “Bilbo won’t be back till this afternoon; he’s gone to the miller for some flour.  He’s keen to start the Yule baking early, as always.”

When Bilbo returned after tea, the three of them made a merry party.  They ate and talked late into the night, until Gandalf finally excused himself and turned in.  Frodo looked across the kitchen table at the familiar face of his favourite uncle, and felt the sudden urge to speak.

“When will you go, Bilbo?” he asked.  “When will you leave the Shire?”

Bilbo started rather badly.  “Why, whatever do you mean, Frodo?” he said at first, and then, shakily, “I hadn’t realized you knew my mind so well.  But don’t worry, lad, I’m not going to leave you.”

“Dear Bilbo,” Frodo said, clasping the old hobbit’s hands across the table.  “You don’t need to worry about me, truly.”

Bilbo squeezed his hands in return.  “I’ll always worry about you, lad, whether I’m here or there or anywhere,” he chuckled.

“Then go and stay with the Elves, if that is your wish, and worry about me from there,” Frodo urged.

“You’re serious,” Bilbo said softly.

Frodo nodded.  “I want you to be happy, Bilbo.”

“I am happy,” the old hobbit protested.

“And I will be happier still, knowing you have gone to see the sights you long for,” Frodo said earnestly.  “You may have an uncommonly strong constitution, but even you can’t wait forever, Bilbo.  You must go while you’ve still time enough to enjoy your retirement.”

Bilbo blinked rapidly, staring at him, and drew an unsteady breath.  “No, certainly not.  You aren’t even of age, Frodo!”

“I will be in less than a year,” Frodo pointed out.  “You could go after our next Birthday.”

“Frodo, if you fear being an imposition, I can assure you—”

“It’s nothing like that,” Frodo said simply.  “Dear Bilbo.  You have done so much for me, but it is my turn to think of you, now.”

Bilbo couldn’t speak for a long moment.  “I couldn’t promise to return,” he said finally.

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“I will miss you, Frodo.”

“And I you,” Frodo replied.  “But I have a request.”

“Anything, lad,” Bilbo said softly.

“If our next Birthday is to be our last together, make it a party of special magnificence.  An event folks will remember for years to come.  I want everyone to be invited who can be, and I want it to rain drink and snow food.”

Bilbo was clearly surprised.  “That’s a delightful suggestion, Frodo, but are you certain?  It is your inheritance we would be spending.”

“I’m certain,” Frodo said.  “We must spare no expense.  And we have nearly a year to find presents, good presents, especially for the less well-off folk.”

Bilbo looked at him seriously.  “If that is your wish, Frodo, then I shall take great pleasure in granting it.  In fact, we will take advantage of the fact that Gandalf is here; when he leaves, he can carry with him our order for dwarf-made toys for the children, the best that were ever seen in these four Farthings.  He is sure to go to Dale before he comes here next, I think.”

“Oh yes, what a fine idea!”

“You know, if we invite everyone, we shall have to include the Sackville-Bagginses,” Bilbo pointed out carefully.

Frodo shrugged.  “A small price to pay for the party of the age,” he said.  “Besides, maybe they won’t come,” he added with a wink.

Since Bilbo’s return to the Shire a year and a half ago, the Sackville-Bagginses had in fact improved somewhat.  Lobelia actually acted as though she were a little ashamed of her behaviour in Bilbo’s absence.  Everyone knew what she had done, and what she had tried to do, and she had been shunned by polite society for many months.

“Has sleep gone out of fashion in the Shire since my last visit?” a voice rumbled from the doorway.

Bilbo and Frodo both turned.  “Gandalf!” Bilbo exclaimed.  “I do apologize.  Did we wake you?”

“I had not yet gone to sleep,” Gandalf admitted.  “Now don’t keep a wizard in suspense.  What’s all this about the party of the age?”

They filled him in, and he looked back and forth between Bilbo and Frodo for some minutes, measuringly.  “You will leave everything to Frodo, then?”

“Yes, of course,” Bilbo replied.

“Everything?”

Frodo looked back and forth between them, puzzled.  They seemed to be carrying on an old argument.

But Bilbo answered, “Yes, everything,” and patted his trouser pocket, and Gandalf seemed satisfied.

“Well, if your hearts are set on it, then I will play my part in this venture, for good or ill,” the wizard said at last.  “You may expect me in September without fail.  And I may bring a few surprises of my own.”

They celebrated the plan with a hearty pre-dawn meal of fried eggs, crisp bacon, and warm sweet porridge.

Friday, Sept. 9, 1401

“Samwise Gamgee, you’ve scarce finished your bread and butter!” Bell Gamgee protested.  “And you hardly touched your mushroom soup.”

Sam looked regretfully at his mother’s good soup, but didn’t slacken his pace.  “Sorry, Ma,” he gulped, his hand already on the door knob.  “But they say Mr. Gandalf is comin’!  Old Sandyman saw him just this morning, comin’ through Bywater, so they say!”

Bell sighed resignedly.  “Oh, get along with ye, then.  And take this basket I’ve fixed for your Gaffer.”

Sam took the basket and hastened out the door.

“And tell your Dad that if he finds himself ‘too busy with the garden’ ta come home for tea, I shan’t be fixin’ another basket!” Bell called after him.  Sam waved distractedly in acknowledgement.  Bell shook her head and closed the door.  “Tweenagers!” she muttered in exasperation.

Sam ran up the Hill as fast as his legs would carry him.  A small crowd of young hobbits had gathered in the short time that had passed since the Gaffer sent him home for lunch.  Sam pushed his way through to Bag End’s front gate, and saw with dismay why the crowd had gathered.

“Oh, he’s come already!” he said aloud, wishing he hadn’t been away from the garden at such a time.  There was a large cart parked by the door, which stood open.  Bilbo and some of the Dwarves who had arrived last week were carefully unloading great bundles from the cart and carrying them inside.

“Don’t know what you’re so miffed about,” Sappy Twofoot said.  “You bein’ assistant gardener and all!”

Sam smiled to himself, recalling that unlike the others, he had a reason to pass the gate and enter the garden, which he did, under the envious stares of his fellows.

He walked very slowly over to the Gaffer, hoping for a glimpse of Gandalf himself, but the wizard did not appear.

“There you are, lad,” Hamfast said absently.  “The taters are in need of some attention this afternoon.”

“Yes, Dad,” Sam said, handing over the Gaffer’s lunch.  “Ma says no more baskets today.”

Hamfast coughed.  “Lots ta do today, in the garden…”

“That’s what I told her,” Sam agreed.  They both turned to watch the unloading of Gandalf’s cart.

The squeals of the watching children first alerted Samwise that something was happening.  “Gandalf!  Gandalf!” they cried, and Sam crept a little closer, both eager and nervous to see the wizard again.

And there he was, come out to get the last of his things from the cart.  He had already taken off his hat, and Sam could see the aged face beaming at the children.  Sam, however, was closer in height to Gandalf’s great boots, and he shrank back shyly even as Bilbo came out to give some pennies to the children.

Sam had thought to speak to Gandalf; they had met before, after all.  But now that the moment was at hand, he found his faculties of speech had deserted him.  He went over to the fence instead, where he saw his friend Tom Cotton.

“I don’t s’pose he’s going ta set off any of his fireworks now,” Tom said to him sadly.

“Fireworks?  Bless me!” Sam realized what all those bundles must have contained.  “I expect they’re for the party.”  A shiver of excitement ran through him.

They watched as the Dwarves dragged the cart away, and Bilbo beckoned Gandalf into Bag End.

The wizard turned to the children, smiling.  “Run away now!” said Gandalf.  “You will get plenty when the time comes.”*  His eyes fell on Samwise then, and he laughed at the sight of the young tween trying to look inconspicuous, over by the fence.

“Good day to you, Samwise!” he said with a wink.  Then he stooped low and followed Bilbo inside, and the round green door was closed.

The other young hobbits looked at Sam even more enviously.  They all watched the door for awhile, but to everyone’s disappointment, nothing else happened.  Rosie Cotton sighed and said mournfully, “Will the party never come?”  Sam didn’t reply, because she was a mere child of seventeen, but silently he agreed with her.

The wait did indeed seem interminable.  They had heard so much about this party, which was to celebrate Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday, and Frodo’s coming of age, that it seemed the actual event could hardly live up to such expectations.

More carts came rolling up the Hill that very weekend; carts from all corners of the Shire, bearing provisions for the party.  And the following week, local merchants had to hire extra help to fill all the orders for supplies that Bilbo sent out.  The invitations began arriving, too, in such volume that more than one post-office was incapacitated, and volunteer postmen had to be recruited. 

Sam continued to work in Bag End’s gardens with his Gaffer, although his ability to concentrate on his work suffered sadly.  But Hamfast was distracted as well, and often allowed him to leave for the day when it was not even teatime. 

They hardly saw Bilbo at all anymore; indeed, he had hardly come out at all since Gandalf’s arrival, except to ask Hamfast to mount a notice on the gate.

“‘NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON PARTY BUSINESS,’” Sam read carefully after the Gaffer had nailed it up.

Hamfast nodded.  “That’ll keep some folk away, at any rate.”

Frodo stayed indoors a good deal more than was usual, helping Bilbo most likely.  But Sam saw him sometimes, going to the Green Dragon with Fatty Bolger and Folco Boffin, or walking in the woods.  He did not read in the garden much anymore, preferring to take his books further afield where he wouldn’t be disturbed by the party preparations. 

One morning, Sam overheard a conversation that puzzled him exceedingly.  He was trimming the verge beneath the window of Bilbo’s study.  His mind was only half on his task, but it still took a moment to realize he could hear the masters talking.

“I know you would come with me, lad, indeed I do,” Bilbo said.  “But I may never return.  Are you prepared never to see the Shire again?”

“No,” Frodo said after a long pause, and sighed.

“Nor should you be.  You’re young, Frodo.  Your whole life is ahead of you.  Are you having second thoughts?” Bilbo asked.  “Because I would stay, if you asked me to.  Even now, I could change my plans.”

“No, I would not ask that of you, any more than you would ask me to leave the Shire.”  Frodo sounded like he was smiling.

“I thank you for the offer nonetheless, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo said gravely. 

“How will we say good-bye?” Frodo asked suddenly.  “I don’t know if I can...”

“Then don’t,” Bilbo replied.  “I don’t think I could bear it, either.  Let’s just enjoy our party, eh?”

Sam realized abruptly that he was listening to conversation he wasn’t meant to hear, and backed hastily away from the window.  He couldn’t make sense of it, in any case.  All this talk of leaving made no sense at all.

But a few days later found Sam again hearing things he wasn’t meant to hear, and this time less innocently.  He was coming back from the Party Field, where ropes and poles were now laid ready for the tents and pavilions that would go up tomorrow.  It was after supper-time and quite dark, and Sam had cut across the Hill to reach Bagshot Row.  As he looked up toward Bag End, he heard Gandalf’s voice raised in laughter.  Sam smiled and went to the garden, hoping the wizard was talking about his fireworks.

“...and it looks real, you say?” Bilbo said delightedly.

“Rather smaller than the real thing, I should say, but it breathes fire at any rate,” Gandalf replied.  “Hand me the pipeweed, will you?”

“That will be the perfect signal for supper,” Bilbo said.  “Oh, I can’t wait to see their faces.”  He chuckled.

“Rather a lot of joke-playing you’re planning, isn’t it?” Gandalf said pointedly.

“Oh, sticklebacks.  Let me have my bit of fun, Gandalf.”

“You still mean to go through with your grand exit, then?” the wizard said disapprovingly.

“Yes,” Bilbo said, and added, “It will make the parting easier.”

“From your ring, or from Frodo?” Gandalf asked.

“Both,” Bilbo said softly.

“Then I will say no more at present,” Gandalf sighed.

Sam walked home slowly, now even surer that something odd was going on.  It really did sound as if Bilbo were going away again.  But where?  And for how long?  Surely he had misunderstood about the not-coming-back part.  Mr. Frodo seemed to know all about it, but he hadn’t seemed particularly upset the last several times Sam had seen him.

He knew he had done wrong by listening to a conversation in secret, but he couldn’t help saying something when he saw the young master the next day.  Frodo was out on the Party Field, watching the largest pavilion going up.  It was large enough that the tree on the field fit neatly inside; Sam had never seen such a tent before.

“Good morning, Samwise,” Frodo said cheerfully when he saw him.

“And to you, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied.

“They’re going to hang lanterns all over the tree, you know,” Frodo remarked.

“That will be a sight to see, and that’s a fact,” Sam said.  He shuffled his toes in the dusty grass, wondering if he was about to overstep horribly.  “Mr. Frodo, is Master Bilbo goin’ away again?”

Frodo looked shocked for a moment, and then he laughed.  “Well, leave it to you, Sam, to figure it out.  A simple sprout you never were...”

“It’s true, then?” Sam pressed.  He didn’t know how or why, but it was suddenly, terribly important for him to know that Frodo would be well and happy.

“Yes, it’s true,” Frodo said, turning serious.  “But I do hope no one else knows; Bilbo is really looking forward to the surprise.”

“I haven’t told a soul, sir, and I won’t,” Sam promised fervently.  He hesitated, not knowing how to ask what he wanted to know.  “But Mr. Frodo, how can you act so cheerful?  Are ye not distressed?”

“My dear Sam!” Frodo exclaimed.  “How good you are to worry.  But you needn’t fear on my account; I’m a little sad, of course, and I will miss Bilbo something awful, I’m sure.  But I want him to go, because he needs to go.  It is the right time, that’s all.  Do you understand?”

“Not really, sir,” Sam said honestly.  “But if you say so, it must be true.  And you’re coming of age in just a few days, so I reckon you’ll get on all right.  But be that as it may, Mr. Frodo, you’ll be my master, and if ye find yourself in need of anything...  Well, I ain’t sayin’ it right.  But I want to be of service, if you follow me.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo said warmly.  “I understand you perfectly, and I shan’t forget it.”

“Well, all right then,” Sam said, satisfied for the moment, but blushing a little under Frodo’s scrutiny.

Thursday, Sept. 22, 1401

The morning of the party dawned cloudless and clear.  The previous evening had been overcast, and Frodo had worried that the clouds would diminish the effect of Gandalf’s fireworks very sadly, so it was with a glad heart that he drew back his bedroom curtains to see the early autumn sun shining brightly.  Bilbo was already in the kitchen, and they shared a hasty first breakfast before it was time to dress.

Frodo put on his finest clothes for the occasion, and at second breakfast he was pleased to see Bilbo wearing his best embroidered silk waistcoat, the one with gold buttons.  They skipped elevenses so as to be on hand at the party field when the guests began to arrive.  Bilbo greeted everyone in person at the new white gate that had been erected for the party, and gave away the presents.  Frodo was pleased to see that the children were so excited that for awhile they almost forgot about eating; they had never seen such wonderful toys.

The day passed in a happy blur for Frodo.  Merry and Pippin were there, having arrived with their families the previous night.  Even Old Rory had come, and pronounced the party a great success.  The Sackville-Bagginses came too, although they made no attempt to speak to Frodo, which suited him fine.  He spent the afternoon dancing with Heather Proudfoot, Emerald Bracegirdle, and other lasses of his acquaintance.  He sampled ales with Fatty and Folco.  He played ring toss and ate sweet pastries with Merry and Pippin. 

And everywhere he turned, someone was waiting to congratulate him on his coming of age.  Saradoc Brandybuck slapped him on the back and shook him heartily by the hand.  Eglantine Took hugged him and told him he’d grown into a fine young hobbit.  Even Dora Baggins, who was almost as old as Bilbo, kissed him and congratulated him on reaching his majority.  Gordo Grubb shouted “Jolly old Frodo!” every time they passed each other, and Frodo suspected his friend had sampled rather too many of the ales.

There was so much singing and dancing, playing of games, and of course near-constant eating and drinking, that before Frodo knew it, it was half past six and the fireworks began.  Few present were old enough to remember the last time Gandalf had put on a fireworks display, and even those few were amazed.  

The wizard saved the best for last.  It startled the hobbits exceedingly, as Gandalf intended.  The lights went out.  A great smoke went up.  It shaped itself like a mountain seen in the distance, and began to glow at the summit.  It spouted green and scarlet flames.  Out flew a red-golden dragon—not life-size, but terribly life-like: fire came from his jaws, his eyes glared down; there was a roar, and he whizzed three times over the heads of the crowd.  They all ducked, and many fell flat on their faces.  The dragon passed like an express train, turned a somersault, and burst over Bywater with a deafening explosion.

“That is the signal for supper!” said Bilbo. 

Frodo and Bilbo enjoyed their birthday feast in the company of a smaller group of guests, largely relatives and close friends.  As the meal wound to a close, Frodo was deep in conversation with Merry, who sat opposite, when he realized Bilbo was not in his place beside him.  The old hobbit had come round behind his chair, and gave Frodo’s shoulder a squeeze.  Merry fell silent, looking up at Bilbo curiously.  Frodo didn’t turn around, but closed his eyes, reaching back to place his own hand atop Bilbo’s.  They remained like that for a long moment, and then Bilbo returned to his chair.

“My dear People,” began Bilbo, rising in his place.

The speech was ridiculous, as Frodo had known it would be.  It went on a good long while, too, although not as long as some of Bilbo’s past birthday speeches.  He could tell the guests were becoming restless as Bilbo neared the end of his remarks.  Frodo’s heart began to race as he realized he was about to witness Bilbo’s final joke on the people of the Shire.  He saw Bilbo’s hand in his trouser pocket, the pocket where he kept his magic ring.  Amusement at the uproar Bilbo was about to cause mingled with a sudden pang of sadness and loss.

“I regret to announce that—though, as I said, eleventy-one years is far too short a time to spend among you—this is the END.”

Frodo could hear the hobbits around him stirring uneasily, but he paid them no mind.  He watched Bilbo’s ageless face.

Their eyes met, and Bilbo held his gaze with such a loving look that Frodo’s breath caught.

“Good bye.”

The last words were spoken quietly into the stillness, meant for Frodo’s ears above all others.  He knew what was about to happen a moment before Bilbo vanished in a blinding flash of light, and the still evening filled with shocked gasps and exclamations.

Frodo sat back, a little stunned.  The old hobbit had finally done it.  Frodo had known this day was coming, had indeed hoped Bilbo would go through with it, but the reality wouldn’t sink in. Then he pictured Bilbo tramping the paths he loved so well, probably on his way to see the Elves.  Bilbo had gone to enjoy his retirement, and Frodo’s heart was glad.

The party guests were milling about in confusion, and Frodo knew he would have to take charge.  But he continued to sit perfectly still for a moment.  He knew Bilbo would never return, and yet…

“Until we meet again,” Frodo said quietly.  He smiled and drained his glass to Bilbo’s health.

The end.