SUMMARY:  Frodo’s life at Brandy Hall after his parents die, and the events leading up to his adoption by Bilbo.  The first part in my “Making of a Rinbearer” trilogy, which is Frodo-centred and pre-LOTR.  The second part is currently in progress (as of January 2004) and can be found on my author page (“The Making of a Ringbearer: Anchored”).

REVIEWS:  Please do.  This is my first serious fan fiction and I would greatly appreciate advice and constructive criticism.  Also, please tell me if you have a suggestion for something you want to happen later in the series. 

RATING:  G.  No mature subject matter and definitely no slash.

NOTES:

I would like to explain my weird personal system of understanding hobbit ages first, so you know what the heck I was thinking when you read the actual story.  I realize that most people have probably developed their own way of relating hobbit ages to human ages, but since I’m writing this story, I might as well tell you how I see it.  If you aren’t obsessed with pointless details like I am, just skip this part.

So basically, I got out my graphing calculator and created a function to describe hobbit age.  Yes, I know I am a nerd, so don’t bother pointing that out.  :)  The function ended up being quadratic, and I think it works really well.  So... if any of you are in a particularly nerdish mood and feel like making your own handy reference graph for hobbit age, here is the function:  Y=0.0034X^2+0.404X+1.14,where X=hobbit age and Y=human equivalent (X^2 means “X squared”).  If you are not so inclined, just look at the convenient table below:

                          X (hobbit age)                       Y (human equivalent)

                         ________________                _________________

                                    8                                                4

                                    11  (Frodo at parents’ deaths)  5

                                    21  (Frodo at adoption)            10

                                    26                                            13

                                    33  (coming of age)                  18

                                    40                                            22

                                    50  (Frodo at start of quest)    29

                                    70                                            45

                                    80                                            55

                                    100  (avg. hobbit lifespan)       75

                                    111                                           87

                                    130                                           110

And so on.  My story actually starts in 1380, the year Frodo’s parents die.  Frodo is thus 11 (5) – I’m assuming the accident is in the spring, before Frodo turns 12.  So, there you have it.  Evidence that your high school algebra may yet serve some purpose...  Now on with the story!  Finally!

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.

The Making of a Ringbearer: Adrift

By Obelia medusa

1.  A Strange Place

1380

Esmeralda sighed, glancing down at the tear-stained face of her young cousin.  She smoothed his dark curls tenderly.  They all had a great deal of grieving to do.

“Come along, Frodo, dear,” she said gently.  “Your room is right over here.  I’ll help you get settled, alright?”

The small hobbit clinging to her hand nodded reluctantly.  Esmeralda opened the door and settled Frodo on one of the two little beds inside.  She saw that Frodo’s bags had already been brought in, and she began swiftly unpacking and hanging the small items of clothing in the cupboard.

Esmeralda worked in silence for several minutes, until all was organized to her satisfaction.  Finally, she looked up to meet the wide blue eyes of her small charge.  He was eleven years old and rather small for his age, but he was a bright little thing. 

He still hadn’t said a word.  Esmeralda was just recently married and had no children of her own yet, but she knew this wasn’t healthy, especially for a boy as bubbly and cheerful as Frodo had been only the day before yesterday.

Yesterday.  Esmeralda sighed again, feeling the strain of the past day as everyone in Brandy Hall was.  The poor child had lost his parents only yesterday.  Accidents on the Brandywine River were rare, to be sure, but not unheard of.  Frodo’s world had fallen apart, and Esmeralda would not soon forget the anguished wail that escaped the little boy on seeing the bodies of his parents brought up from the river.

Since then, Frodo had maintained this eerie silence, broken only by tears.  Esmeralda supposed he was still in shock, and she was worried.  How long could this last?  

*          *         *

February 1382

Frodo Baggins paused uncertainly outside the heavy wooden door, then hesitantly pressed a small, delicately pointed ear against the cool surface.  He could hear voices within the room.  They were talking loudly.  Frodo frowned, trying to determine if one of the voices belonged to the person he sought.  He wiped his nose with a small, grubby hand and listened carefully.

The voices burst suddenly into raucous laughter, and Frodo drew back with a startled sniffle, then made himself continue along the round hallway as silently as he had come.  He was looking for his Aunt Esmeralda, and none of the voices in the room was female.

Brandy Hall was an enormous network of rooms and passageways beneath Brandy Hill, and could bewilder any adult hobbit.  But Frodo was only thirteen years old, and he was completely lost.  He missed the small, cozy hobbit hole he had shared with his parents.

The boy whimpered quietly.  Thinking of his parents still made him cry like a baby hobbit sometimes, and he had frequent nightmares about the day they drowned in a boating accident on the Brandywine River almost two years ago.

He crept softly down the long passageway, making himself shrink into the shadows as much as possible in case any of his boisterous cousins made an unexpected appearance. 

Frodo knew that these Brandybuck relations were his family now; it had been explained to him many times, but he just couldn’t seem to feel comfortable in Brandy Hall.  Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda had assured him, when he was first brought to live with them, that he would soon get used to the chaos and feel quite at home. 

Uncle Bilbo had said the same thing.  Frodo smiled fondly, thinking of his favourite uncle.  Bilbo had come to Brandy Hall soon after the accident, and his presence had been such a comfort to Frodo.  All too soon the visit had ended, and the dear old hobbit had gone back to Bag End, promising to come again as soon as he could.

There had been several brief visits since then, but Frodo hadn’t seen Uncle Bilbo since before the New Year.  Bilbo had said he would come back in the spring.

Frodo paused, holding his small hands over his mouth to muffle the coughing fit that overtook him suddenly.   He wasn’t sure, but he thought springtime really ought to be fairly soon.  After all, it seemed like a dreadfully long time since Uncle Bilbo had gone away, so really, spring could come any day now.

Satisfied with his logic, Frodo returned his attention to his present mission.  Where could Aunt Esmeralda be?   He needed to tell her he was sick.  Mama had always said he should tell a grown hobbit if he wasn’t feeling well, and Aunt Esmeralda was the only one at Brandy Hall who paid him much attention.  Uncle Saradoc was very kind as well, but he was even busier than his wife, being more involved in the smooth running of Brandy Hall.  Frodo didn’t want to bother him. 

In fact, he didn’t really want to bother Aunt Esmeralda either, but he didn’t see any other choice.  She was probably in her bedroom, where she had been spending a lot of time resting lately, but Frodo didn’t know which way that was.

Frodo came to a hallway that branched to the right.  He turned the corner and whimpered in frustration when he still didn’t recognize where he was.  He leaned back against the wall and slid slowly to the floor.  He was so tired, his nose wouldn’t stop running, and his throat ached abominably.  The floor was of smooth, hard wood, but Frodo curled up into as small a ball as he could make and soon fell fast asleep.

*          *          *

The next thing Frodo was aware of was that he was much too cold, which was puzzling because he was covered by a veritable mountain of soft blankets.  After that, he noticed that he couldn’t breathe through his nose, and his mouth was painfully dry.

“Mama?”  Frodo croaked experimentally.

“She’s not here,” said a voice abruptly. 

Frodo sat up slowly, his memories gradually returning.  He was in his own little bed in the room he shared with his cousin Bolo, in Brandy Hall.  His parents were... dead.  Frodo felt rather silly for forgetting something so important.  He glanced across the dimly lit room to see Bolo lounging on the other bed.

“What happened?” Frodo finally asked, trying to clear his scratchy throat.

Bolo snorted derisively.  “You fell asleep in the hallway again.  Cousin Merimac found you and brought you back here.  What’s the matter with you, anyway?  You’ve lived here almost two years and you still get lost!”

“I wasn’t lost,” Frodo replied indignantly.  “I was having an... adventure!”  Frodo was very proud of remembering that important word.

Bolo laughed at that.  “Oh, really?  Did you run into any trolls this time?”  Bolo didn’t have much use for his imaginative younger cousin.  The brat had been given Bolo’s own room to share, and he wasn’t even much fun.  He was too young to play the rough games Bolo played with his friends.  He wouldn’t even go swimming in the Brandywine like a normal Brandybuck.  The only use Bolo had found for Frodo was that the younger hobbit was fun to torment.

Frodo frowned and flopped back down on his bed.  Bolo was three years older and Frodo was often at his mercy, as they were frequently unsupervised, but Frodo wouldn’t give the other boy the satisfaction of admitting that he still couldn’t find his way around Brandy Hall.

“Uncle Bilbo met trolls,” Frodo said reproachfully.

“Oh, yes!  Good old Mad Baggins!”  Bolo chortled.  “I bet you’ll grow up to be just like him!”

Frodo sat up again furiously.  “Don’t you talk about Uncle Bilbo like that!”  he cried.

“He’s not even your uncle, Frodo,” Bolo said cruelly.  “He’s your cousin.  So are ‘Aunt’ Esmeralda and ‘Uncle’ Saradoc!”

“No!” shouted Frodo, forgetting his sore throat.  He had been addressing his favourite relatives as Aunt or Uncle for years; he hated to think of the only remaining hobbits who loved him having a title in common with Cousin Bolo.

“At least Bilbo doesn’t have blue eyes like you,” Bolo went on, clearly enjoying the reaction he was getting.  “Hobbits don’t have blue eyes!  What are you, anyway?”

Frodo wanted to say that Mama had blue eyes, but somehow he knew that if he brought up his mother, Bolo would insult her too, and Frodo didn’t think he could bear that.  Instead, he turned away from Bolo without responding.  He had always liked his blue eyes, anyway.  They reminded him of the Elves in Uncle Bilbo’s stories: exotic and striking.

The round door to their room started to open then, and Esmeralda poked her head in.

“Frodo?  I thought you were still asleep,” she said, coming into the room with a steaming mug and a glass of water.  “What’s the matter, my pet?”

“Aunt Esmelda, are you really my aunt?”  Frodo asked tearfully.

“Of course I am, darling,” Esmeralda answered, knowing Frodo’s penchant for addressing various relatives by the wrong title.  She thought it was rather endearing, especially since the child had always had difficulty pronouncing her name.  “Why do you ask?”

“Bolo said you’re my cousin,” Frodo answered. 

Esmeralda paused, noting Frodo’s distress and guessing who was behind it.  “Bolo Brandybuck,” she said finally.  “Your mother is looking for you.  It’s time for supper.”

Bolo slipped off his bed eagerly, sticking out his tongue at Frodo as he left the room.  Frodo stared back with all the dignity a thirteen-year-old hobbit could muster.

“Drink some of this, Frodo-lad,” Esmeralda said, coming to sit on the edge of his bed and holding out the steaming mug she had brought.  “You have a nasty cold.”

Frodo sipped from the mug as Esmeralda held it for him.  It was nice warm chicken broth, he realized.  He couldn’t smell it, but at least it felt good on his throat.

Once Frodo had finished the broth, Esmeralda scooted back against the wall and pulled the little hobbit into her lap.

“Frodo,” she began.  “I want you to listen carefully, all right?”  She felt Frodo nod solemnly from his position cuddled closely against her.

“Saradoc and I both love you very much, and nothing can change that.”  Esmeralda paused to gauge the effect her words were having.  “We don’t mind at all that you call us aunt and uncle, but in actual fact, we are your cousins.”

Frodo frowned.  “Bolo was right?” he said uncertainly.

“Yes, dear, although it was very wrong of him to tease you as he did.” 

“What are cousins?”

Esmeralda raised an eyebrow.  Genealogy was one of the most important subjects taught to young hobbits, but Frodo had not yet started school.  How much would he understand?  She wondered, not for the first time, if she and Saradoc were ready for what would be coming in a few months...

“Cousins are the children of your parents’ brothers and sisters, or the husbands and wives of those children,” Esmeralda said, deciding to stick with first cousins.  You have many cousins here in Buckland, and all of them love you.  Do you understand?”

Frodo tried to figure that out, but gave up eventually.  He liked the part about his cousins loving him, although he rather doubted it was true of Bolo...

Seeing that Frodo was satisfied, Esmeralda began tucking him back into bed.  She was glad she hadn’t tried to explain second cousins, cousins-once-removed, and all the other complicated relationships that existed in the Brandybuck clan.

“Now you get some rest, young hobbit.  You still have a bit of a fever.  You really should have come to me earlier!”

Frodo thought about telling her that he had tried to find her, but really he was getting drowsy, and he was finally starting to feel warm again.  Frodo closed his eyes.

Esmeralda kissed Frodo on the forehead and blew out the lamp.  “That’s right, just go back to sleep, my pet.  I’ll bring you some supper in a bit,” she said, setting the glass of water on the dresser in case Frodo got thirsty later.

Frodo suddenly opened his eyes and sat up again, remembering something he had been wondering about earlier.  He rarely had the chance to ask all the questions he came up with, and he wasn’t about to waste an opportunity.

“Aunt Esmelda?  Is it almost springtime?”  he asked hopefully, remembering that Bilbo might be coming any day now, if it was spring.

“No, dear,” replied a puzzled Esmeralda.  “Not for another month and a half!  It’s only February yet.”

“Oh,” said Frodo, trying to conceal his disappointment.  A month and a half was a long time, but that was all right.  Frodo could wait, and make up new adventures between now and then.  “Thank you, Aunt Esmelda.”

Esmeralda smiled and closed the door behind her.