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This is a reposting of a previously published installment in an anthology. This version has been almost entirely rewritten.

Frodo is six years old, about the equivalent of a human child of four.

The idea of Drogo’s being a woodworker belongs, as far as I know, to Larner. The same is true of the notion that Drogo and Primula would have liked to have, and indeed tried to have, more children. I’ve seen others use these bits of fanon also, but the influence on me and on this story came directly from her wonderful and poignant tale, “Flooding and Glamors,” which can also be found here on SoA.

“Biscuits,” in this story, refer to what we call cookies in the States. Since Professor Tolkien drew inspiration from England for several aspects of the Shire, I’ve opted for British word usage where it differs from that in the United States.

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OF THE NATURE OF DREAMS

October, S.R. 1374

Primula sat up in bed and reached out automatically for Drogo. She wasn’t sure what had roused her, but vague uneasiness plucked at the back of her mind. She wanted to cuddle close to her husband and fall asleep again in the warm circle of his arms. But her hands touched cool, empty sheets. She gasped, staring into the darkness, then breathed out.

Of course. Drogo was away to Frogmorton overnight to deliver that cradle he’d carved and painted for Ordo and Iris Hornblower. It had turned out so well, the head and footboards adorned with carvings of deer, squirrels, and rabbits set in serene, cheerful woodland scenes. The Hornblowers were sure to be pleased. Drogo’s work was admired wherever it went.

For a moment — only a moment — she let herself think of Frodo’s own little cradle, carved with the delicate moon and star motif she had so wanted. She had made the bedding to match, patiently embroidering tiny moons and stars on the pale blue bedskirt, coverlet, and pillow slip. Cradle and bedding were safely stored away now. How she had hoped to rock many children in that cradle … But that wasn’t to be, and thinking about it wouldn’t do.

She disentangled herself from the bedclothes, lit the candle on the bedside table, and, taking it, crept across the hall to the nursery door to look in on her son. She needed to see his sweet, sleeping face before she would be able to rest again.

The room was illuminated by the light of the full moon streaming in through the parted curtains. She wondered Frodo could sleep at all, but he was so frightened of waking up in the dark that he wouldn’t go to bed unless the curtains were left open each night. Drogo, who was an early riser, usually slipped in to close them before the sun came up so that Frodo wouldn’t be awake at dawn. Primula must remember to do that herself in the morning.

Frodo was curled up at the bottom of the bed and had thrown his pillow and all the blankets off himself onto the floor. Primula frowned. With the fires banked for the night, it was too chilly in the smile for her little one to be uncovered as he was. She blew out her candle and came to remake the bed. Before gathering up the thrown pillow and blankets, she bent over him and laid her hand on his shoulder. She was surprised to feel him trembling. Alarmed, she knelt and kissed his forehead. It was cool and clammy.

He suddenly jumped, gasped, and sat up. “Mummy! Mummy!” he wailed with startling loudness.

Primula caught him in her arms and held him to her chest. “Sh-sh-shh … It’s all right. It’s all right. Mummy’s here.” She rubbed his back. He seldom had nightmares, but when he did, they seemed especially frightening.

Frodo pressed against her, still shaking. He didn’t cry as she expected, only shuddered over and over again in a way that unnerved her. She kissed his sweat-damp hair and kept rubbing his back in soothing circles. “Did you have a bad dream, darling?” she whispered to him, resting her cheek on his head.

He nodded, the springy curls tickling her cheek. Then he clung to her with all his strength, clutching handfuls of her long, dark tresses in both small fists, and the tears came.

Primula continued to hold him and make soft shushing sounds while he cried. “That’s right, that’s right, lovey, wash all the bad away,” she said, quoting her mother Mirabella, who had said the very same to Primula and her brothers and sisters when they’d had nightmares.

After several minutes, Frodo gave a shuddering sigh. His desperate grip on her relaxed a little, and he lifted his face to look up at her. Tears gleamed on his lashes and cheeks in the moonlight, and his blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Primula planted soft kisses beneath them. “What did you dream about?” Her mother had also claimed that telling your dreams was the only way to keep them from coming back.

Frodo shook his head. “I dunno. It was dark … and … and s-so cold.” His breath hitched in the erratic sniffling and jerking that came after hard crying, causing him to stammer. “There were big black things and they were going to … to eat me. And you and D-Daddy were there, but I couldn’t see you and y-you couldn’t find me. I was yelling and yelling, but you didn’t c-come.”

Primula hugged him tight against her again. “Oh, Frodo, sweetheart … Daddy or I will always come when you call us. I promise, we will.”

He nodded against her chest. She rocked him a little in her arms, murmuring the tender endearments she’d spoken to him since before he was even born, until the trembling stopped.

“How about some warm milk to make you all warm inside before you go back to sleep?”

Frodo pulled away from her, eyes round. “I’m not going back to sleep, Mummy!” he said indignantly.

She smiled, knowing better than to argue, and rubbed his shoulders. “All right. But how about some warm milk anyway?”

He bit his lip and nodded. “Yes, please.”

She picked up the green and yellow down quilt from the floor and wrapped it around him. “I’ll be right back, then. Here.” She searched through the other things that had been flung off the bed until she found Floppy, Frodo’s most beloved stuffed rabbit, and handed it to him. He clutched the worn toy to his chest and stared after her as she got up and went to the door. She looked back at him and smiled reassurance. “I won’t be a minute, darling. Everything is all right.”

“Don’t close the door, please,” he said in a small voice.

“Of course not.” She smiled at him again and hummed as she walked down the shadowy passage to the kitchen.

She had just stirred up the fire and put the milk to heat in a saucepan on the stove, when she heard a slight noise behind her and turned to see Frodo standing there, still wrapped in the heavy quilt, most of it dragging behind him. He held it up with one hand and hugged Floppy in his other arm. “I want to help, Mummy,” he said.

She smiled and put out an arm to draw him to her side, and he snuggled against her. “It’s all done now. But it was pretty lonesome in here, you know, so I’m glad you came.” She grinned.

“When is Daddy coming home?” He glanced out of the kitchen toward the front door.

“Tomorrow.”

Frodo’s face puckered in a frown. “I wish he was coming now.”

“I know. So do I.” Primula thought quickly. “How about a biscuit while we wait for the milk, hmm?”

Frodo’s eyes widened in amazement. “Biscuits? In the night? Really, Mummy?”

Primula winked at him. “A biscuit might help to keep the bad dreams away. Would you like one?”

“Oh, yes!”

Primula crossed the room to the sideboard and removed the lid from the large glass biscuit jar. “Hmm, the best biscuit for my best boy,” she mused, looking down to meet his eyes and smile.

Frodo hopped from foot to foot, dropping the quilt. “Can I get it? I’m big enough.”

“‘May I?’” Primula prompted gently.

Frodo hugged Floppy excitedly, making a visible effort to stand still like a proper young gentlehobbit. “May I, please?” he said.

Primula nodded, pleased with her son’s budding good manners, and picked him up so that he could reach the biscuits. He reached into the jar and came out with three large, round ones.

“Oh no, you don’t, you little rascal!” She playfully swatted the back of his hand. “Only one. It’s late.”

Frodo giggled. “But, Mummy, one for me and one for Floppy and one for you!”

Primula laughed and kissed his temple. “Floppy rabbits don’t eat biscuits. Only little Hobbits eat them.”

Frodo locked his too-innocent eyes on hers. “But you eat biscuits, and you’re not a little Hobbit,” he said earnestly. “Floppy can eat his for pretend, but for true, we’ll share it.” The corners of his mouth quirked upward in a mischievous little grin.

Primula laughed again. . “All right. We’ll each have one, then share one.”

  Frodo beamed sweetly at her and gently held one of the biscuits to her lips. “You first, Mummy.”

 As it turned out, Primula shared both biscuits with Frodo; for, though he said nothing, he watched every crumb with such longing blue eyes that she ended up giving him more than half of each one. ‘Rascal,’ she thought fondly. But she didn’t mind, though she knew perfectly well that she was being manipulated. She enjoyed these sweet moments with her only child too much and knew that he would outgrow such antics soon enough. He was generally well-behaved, rarely disobeyed and only occasionally gave way to temper even at this young age. Most importantly for the moment, the nightmare seemed forgotten.

When Frodo had drunk the warm milk, he and Primula went back to the nursery together, and he helped her remake the tumbled bed by handing her the things that had been flung off it, placing the pillow back where it belonged, and smoothing the covers as she tucked them in at the bottom. “But I don’t want to go to sleep,” he said even as he helped her.

“It’s very late, darling. You’ll be tired and cross tomorrow if you don’t.”

Frodo said nothing, but gazed at her so mournfully that Primula felt her resolve wavering. “But what if the dream comes back?” he said after a pause.

She bent and hugged him. “It can’t come back. You washed it away with all those tears, then ate and drank it away with milk and biscuits for good measure. It’ll never find its way back in.” She folded back the smooth covers and patted the bed. “Come on, now. In you pop.”

Frodo chewed his lower lip, his eyes wandering from the bed to the pine rocking chair in the corner, which Primula couldn’t bear to move out of the room, although they rarely used it anymore except when Frodo was sick. “One song first, Mummy? Please?”

Primula looked down at him, then glanced toward the chair herself. Hadn’t she just been thinking about how quickly he would grow up? She went to it, sat in it, and opened her arms. “One song, then. Only one, mind you.” She pretended to be stern, but Frodo’s eager smile as he ran to her and climbed in her lap told her he didn’t believe it for a moment. “Well, what shall it be?” she asked, cuddling him close and pushing the chair into a gentle rock.

He wound his arms about her and laid his head on her shoulder, but didn’t answer at once. “Mummy, what makes dreams?”

“I don’t know, love. We just have them.”

“Uncle Bilbo says maybe the Man in the Moon makes dreams.”

“Does he?” Primula stroked her son’s soft hair.

“Mm-hmm.” He lifted his head and looked into her face with concern that suggested the weight of the whole world rested on his small shoulders. “But, Mummy, if that’s true, why are there bad dreams? I thought the Man in the Moon was good.”

Primula suppressed the urge to yawn. She should have known ‘one song’ would really be a string of questions, a story, and then a song. She considered all the tales she’d ever heard about the fabled Man in the Moon. “So he is,” she said, thinking hard. “But the Man in the Moon only brings the good dreams, you see.”

“Oh,” said Frodo, nodding. “But how does he bring them?”

“Why, in his carriage, of course, just as he brings his lamps to make light for everyone at night.”

“No, but how does he bring them? How does he get them? What are dreams?”

Primula sighed. “Oh, Frodo, you do ask the most impossible questions.” She laughed a little. “Let me see. The good dreams look like tiny little people, men and women and children, dressed all in gold with silver butterfly wings at their backs. Before the Man in the Moon gets ready to come to the world in his gleaming carriage, he gathers them all up in it. Then he hitches up his six shining silver horses, and off they all go. And …”

“What are horses, Mummy?”

She touched a gentle finger to Frodo’s lips. “It’s not polite to interrupt, Frodo. When you have a question while someone is speaking, you must wait until he or she is finished before you ask.”

“Yes, Mummy.” He bowed his head a little. “But what are horses?”

She smiled at him. “They’re very big ponies. Ponies are too small for the Man in the Moon’s giant carriage, you see.”

“Oh. All right. Then what does he do?”

“Well, when he gets to a place where good, kind people live, he sends some of the dreams to come whisking in through their windows and whisper pretty stories into their ears while they sleep.” She was gratified by Frodo’s intent expression as she spun her nonsense for him. There could be no better audience for stories than this bright child.

“But how do they get in the windows if they’re not open?”

“Well, they come in on his light.”

“Oh.” Frodo was silent long enough for Primula to hope he was satisfied. Then, “What about the bad ones?”

“What about them, dear?”

“Well, what are they?” He had nestled against her as she spoke, but now he lifted his head again and looked into her face with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. “You said good dreams come to good and kind people.”

“Yes.” She smoothed her fingers over his forehead as if to erase the lines between his eyebrows.

“I want to be kind,” he said very quietly.

Primula caught her breath and rocked the chair a little harder. “Oh, darling, of course you do, and you are!” She’d put her foot in it now, and she’d just have to keep making up this story until she undid her accidental implication.

“But why …?” He trailed off, troubled.

“Well, you see, bad dreams aren’t like good ones at all. They look like little people, too, but they’re horrid things, all sickly green with dull yellowish brown wings. And they don’t care whether you’re kind or not. They just buzz about and see what mischief they can make, and when they find someone to bother, they come up to their ears and whisper their dreadful, nasty stories into them until the person wakes up and tells them to go away.”

“Oh,” Frodo said again, round-eyed. “How do you tell them to go away?”

Primula smiled at him. “Why, you do just what you did. You wash them all away, if they’re very bad, and then you tell about them. Bad dreams like to be a secret. That makes them feel strong and powerful. So if you tell their secrets, it takes away all their strength and they can’t hurt you anymore. Do you see?”

Frodo nodded, smiling in his turn. “So, ‘cause I told you that dream, it can’t come back?”

Primula kissed his forehead. “That’s right. It can’t ever, ever come again. Now, I know a song about the Man in the Moon and his beautiful carriage and his good dreams. Are you ready to listen?”

“Yes.” Frodo cuddled closer, tucking his head under her chin and closing his eyes.

Primula started the chair rocking again, smiling and watching the moonlight shine in her son’s hair. She hummed for a moment to find her key, then began to sing.

“The evening is falling, darkling and still.

The Man in the Moon’s coming over the hill.

He’s driving his carriage; O see how it gleams!

He’s come a long way for to bring you a dream.”

Frodo yawned. “I hope it’s a nice one,” he murmured.

“Shhh. You’ll see.” Primula laid her cheek on his head again, breathing him in, and went on singing.

“He’ll bring you a dream from his lady, the Sun,

Of song and of laughter, of feasting and fun;

And in that bright dreamland you’ll joyously play,

Till the Sun leaves her slumber and brings a new day.”

Frodo’s body was already growing heavy and limp in her arms. As she looked down at him, for a second she thought that he shone, as if he himself were made of moonbeams. She blinked, startled, then smiled at herself. It was only a trick of the light, after all. He was her little Frodo, as solid and warm and real as he’d ever been. She needed sleep herself, it seemed. In a moment she would tuck him into his bed and return to her own. But just for now, she held him and rocked him and finished the song.

“Hush now, my darling, and fear not the night.

The Man in the Moon’s bathing all in his light.

He’s driving his carriage; O see how it gleams!

He’s come a long way for to bring you a dream.”

END