When Frodo and Sam arrived at the pleasant cottage, they found the three Brockhouses already waiting for them. Bluebell had changed into a clean, dry frock, and Mr. Brockhouse was carrying armloads of blankets into the parlour. Mrs. Brockhouse had already coaxed the fire into a roaring blaze, and there was the sound of a kettle singing in the kitchen. Bluebell ran forward as the two guests came in and took Frodo’s hands. "Come and sit here, Mr. Baggins; it’s the very warmest place," she said, pulling him towards a large easy chair close to the fire.

Frodo sank gratefully into it, finding, to his embarrassment, that he was shaking. Bluebell must have noticed, for she gave him a motherly smile and patted his hand. "There, it’s all right now. Mama, Mr. Frodo needs some dry clothes. He’s shivering, and he might catch his death!"

"I know, lovey," said Mrs. Brockhouse. "Sandy, have you something Mr. Frodo might be able to wear comfortably, till he can get home and into his own things?"

Frodo felt himself blushing furiously. "It’s all right…I’m quite…quite comfortable, thank you…"

"Mr. Baggins, your face is so red," Bluebell said, her little forehead wrinkling with concern. "Hold still a moment…" She laid her small hand on his brow. "Well, I don’t think you have a fever, sir. Mama, am I doing it right?"

Mrs. Brockhouse chuckled. She decided to refrain from telling her little daughter just then that the most reliable way to check the temperature was to press the lips to the forehead. "I think he’s going to be all right, Bell. Why don’t you run along with Daddy and help find Mr. Frodo some nice dry clothes?"

Bluebell nodded eagerly and ran to her father. "Come on, Daddy! We’ve got to hurry; Mr. Baggins mustn’t stay in those wet things!"

Soon enough, the young lass marched into the parlour, bearing the clothes with the air of one who carried king’s clothes. She handed them to Frodo with a flourish. Mrs. Brockhouse smiled at the shade of crimson Frodo’s ears turned. "You can change in our room, dear." She showed Frodo the master bedroom.

He shut the door and found, to his consternation, that there was no lock. He quickly changed into the clothes, but they hung off his frame. Mr. Brockhouse was taller and much broader than Frodo. He saw a belt lying on the bed, and decided that he would rather take something without asking than have his breeches fall down. As soon as he was dressed, Frodo realised his hands were trembling. Flashing before his minds eye, he could see again the water closing over his head; he felt himself being pulled under water, his lungs burning for air; his mouth opening in desperation; water pouring in…and then black. Frodo shuddered as he sank into a corner. He fought tears. His breath was shallow and rapid.

A knock on the door made him jump. "Mr. Frodo, dear, is everything fitting?"

"Ah…yes, Mrs. Brockhouse, fine. I’m coming." His voice sounded shaky and Frodo fought to steady it. He stood and took deep breaths to calm himself before going out. As he laid his hand on the handle, he plastered his most winning smile on his face. He must not let his kind hosts see how shaken he was.

"Ah, you look fine, Mr. Frodo," Mrs. Brockhouse said as Frodo emerged from the bedroom.

Frodo blushed again. "I’m sorry for…borrowing this, but…" He pointed to the belt and looked down at his feet.

"Quite all right, my lad. Come on back into the parlour and get warm now." She put her hand on his shoulder and led him back into the warm room.

Bluebell was draping quilts over the chair before the fire, and Sam came over with a cup of hot tea as Frodo was motioned into his seat by his anxious little hostess. "Thank you, Sam, Bluebell," Frodo said, greatfully taking the steaming cup.

Sam looked carefully over his master, noticing above all else the too-brilliant smile. "Are you sure you don’t want me to go for that cart, Mr. Frodo?" he whispered, leaning close to Frodo’s ear.

Frodo nodded. "Yes, Sam."

Sam sighed, but he knew better than to debate the matter now.

Suddenly Sam remembered, he’d lost his precious bundle! "Oh, Mr. Frodo, I…I…er, I lost something when I ran to the water. Will you be all right here while I run back for it? I’m sorry, sir, but it’s important."

"Important, Sam? It doesn’t have anything to do with that mysterious bundle you had earlier, does it?"

Sam noted the smile, but also noted that no laughter shone in his master’s eyes. "Well…it might." Sam smiled.

"Whatever you say, Sam. But be careful. And…never mind." Frodo looked a bit worried. He knew there was no need for paranoia, but the last thing he wished for was another accident of some kind.

Sam clasped Frodo’s shoulder for a second. "I’ll be back." And then, turning to Bluebell, who was still hovering, he added with a smile, "You take care of him, Bluebell."

She beamed. "I will, Sam. Don’t worry!"

Sam hurried out and back to the place where he thought he had dropped his treasured bundle. At first he did not see it, but on looking closer he found it hidden behind a bush. It may have rolled, he thought absently. He snatched it up and then turned and pelted towards the Green Dragon. He hated to go against Frodo’s wishes, but a look into his friend’s eyes had been enough to let him know that Frodo was not "all right", as he claimed.

Meanwhile, Frodo had been coaxed into playing tea party. He sat at a table that had been drawn up near his chair. Little Miss Bluebell sat in her best frock across from him and chatted in her imitation of a Hobbit lady.

"Well, Mr. Baggins, as you see, the harvest should be good this year. Dear Miss Rosie Cotton told me so. I called on her just the other day. And would you believe that their cow is going to have a calf soon! I can’t wait to see her. I want to be there when it happens. I’ve never seen a calf be born. Have you, Mr. Baggins? Oh, do you need more tea? Let me assist you." She poured him a third cup of tea. "Have you ever seen a calf be born, Mr. Baggins?"

"Um…no, I don’t believe I have. I have seen a pony be born though."

"Ooo! Ponies are so very lovely! Can you ride, Mr. Frodo? But of course you can. You have that fine animal down at the Green Dragon."

As the young lady chattered away, Frodo thought, ‘Oh, please hurry, Sam!’

But just as he finished the thought, Bluebell jumped up, looking alarmed. "Oh dear, please excuse me, Mr. Baggins! There’s something I must see to at once!" She darted away. She returned a moment later with a doll cradled in her arms. "I’m sorry to end the party, Mr. Baggins, but my little lass almost drownded."

Frodo stared at her for a moment. Again, the visions of his near death flashed before his eyes. A small hand waving before his face shook him back to reality.

"Mr. Baggins, are you all right?" Bluebell’s brown eyes were wide with concern.

Frodo forced a smile, even though the lass’s screams echoed through his mind. "Yes, I’m…just…um, I’m a bit weary. How is your lass, Miss Brockhouse?"

"I think she’ll be all right. She’s chilled and tired. Perhaps you should both rest. Here, will you hold her for a moment?"

Frodo nodded and held out his arms, and the rag doll was placed in them. Bluebell scampered across the room to fetch a quilt that lay on the sofa.

Frodo again found it hard to breathe. He leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes against the visions that played before him. He could see those brown eyes pleading for him to save her, feel those trusting arms that clung to his neck and unintentionally made it hard for him to breathe. He remembered trying to keep her head above the water, even if it meant his own head had to be under. Her cries for help, her sobbing for him to save her, all made him realise that if he didn’t make it, neither would she.

A little girlish cry of, "Oh!" made Frodo jump up and grab her arms.

"Mr. Frodo!" Bluebell cried.

"I’m sorry, dear. I…heard you cry out. Are you all right?" He released her shoulders as he spoke. With a toss of the brown curls, he was forgiven.

"Well, of course *I’m* all right. But I don’t think you are. You must have fallen asleep because you dropped Holly."

"Holly?" Frodo asked.

Bluebell held up her doll. "She’s fine."

"Oh…good," Frodo murmured absentmindedly.

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and the next, Sam was led in by Mr. Brockhouse. ‘Oh, good!’ Frodo thought, suppressing a sigh of relief.

"I’ve brought a cart, Mr. Frodo," Sam announced, slowly raising his eyes to look into Frodo’s. Oh! What had happened while he’d been away?

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo said, scarcely seeming to realise that he spoke at all.

"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Brockhouse, Bluebell," Sam said, "but I think we’d best be getting back now."

Bluebell’s face fell, but she was obviously too polite to beg or whine. "Oh dear, I *am* sorry. I do hope you’ll come back and see us again."

Kneeling before the lass, Frodo said, "I will indeed see you again soon. I must return your father’s clothes and retrieve my own, mustn’t I?" Frodo smiled a small, but genuine, smile to see the big brown eyes light up with hope. "Thank you very much for your care, Miss Bluebell; I’m much obliged to you. And thank you both as well," he added to her parents as he rose.

As the cart pulled away from the Brockhouse cottage, Sam looked over at Frodo. Frodo was staring off somewhere into the distance, apparently at the landscape, but Sam noted that his shoulders were very tense.

"Mr. Frodo?"

No response.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam said a bit louder. Was Frodo angry that he had fetched a cart?

"Hmm?" Frodo slowly turned empty eyes to Sam.

"You’re not…angry, are you?"

"Angry? About…the cart?"

Sam nodded.

"No," was the simple answer as Frodo turned again to his musings.

Sam sighed heavily. Neither spoke again until they drove up the Hill and stopped before Bag End. "It’s teatime. I’ll put the kettle on for you, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo thought of all the tea his little hostess had supplied for him and said, "No tea, Sam. But I am a bit hungry." To prove his point, his stomach growled.

"As you wish, Mr. Frodo."

Sam went to look in the larder for something for his master to eat. He found a cake and sliced a piece. When he saw that Frodo was not in the kitchen, Sam placed the slice of chocolate cake and a glass of milk on a tray and went to Frodo’s bedroom. Frodo was lying on his stomach, face buried in the pillow.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam called softly. Frodo looked back at Sam and smiled wanly.

"You could have just called me to the kitchen, Sam."

"You seemed a bit tired, sir. I’ll just let you eat in here, then you can take a nap if you like."

Frodo sat up as Sam set the tray in his lap. Sam noticed the trembling hand that took the plate of cake and the fork. He watched anxiously for a moment and then looked away, knowing that Frodo hated close scrutiny. His gaze was drawn back, however, by the sound of the fork clattering loudly against the plate. Frodo’s face flushed.

"All right," Sam said, carefully taking the tray and setting it on the night table. "What’s the matter, Mr. Frodo?"

"What?" said Frodo, trying to look as if he didn’t know what Sam meant.

"Oh, come, sir, please don’t. I do hate to press you, but…" Sam trailed off, not knowing what to say.

"Then don’t press. I’m just weary. Let me rest!" Frodo instantly realised that his words were harsh. "Oh, I’m so sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. I just…Please. I’m very tired." Well, it wasn’t a lie; it just wasn’t the whole truth.

"Very well, Mr. Frodo. Just call if you need anything." Sam withdrew, softly closing the door behind him. He knew that Frodo had not told him all the truth; of course he knew. But what could he do? Mr. Frodo was his better; he must not disobey him.

In his room, Frodo buried his head again in the pillow. His heart was crying, but his eyes wouldn’t follow suit. He was haunted by his near drowning, the memory of his parents’ deaths, and the sight and sounds of poor little Bluebell. And to make it all worse, he had hurt his dearest friend, who had only been trying to help. O! he was a miserable Hobbit. He lay on his bed desperately trying to think of other things, but the flashbacks would always come just when he thought his mind was free. He continued in this manner until sheer exhaustion took him into a fitful sleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Frodo looked on. His mouth wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. Sam was floundering in the water, screaming his name. Frodo wanted to make his legs move, but, like his voice, they didn’t work.

"Mr. FRODO!!" Sam cried from the water.

Something suddenly worked in Frodo’s legs and he dove into the strangely icy water. He swam, but seemed to be held back by some force. "Sam!" He called. But as soon as his mouth opened, water flowed in. Frodo kept swimming, but Sam seemed to grow farther away. No, he wasn’t growing farther away…here he was. His voice had been growing weaker. Just as Frodo reached out to grab Sam, Sam was pulled down.

"Nooo!" Frodo screamed. Taking a deep breath, he dove down. Finally he managed to grab Sam’s hand and pull him to the surface, which was farther than he remembered. He almost had Sam to shore, when a new voice called his name. Pippin! No! Frodo struggled all the harder to get Sam to shore. He finally did, and then he dove back in for Pippin. The scene that had happened with Sam repeated itself with Pippin and then Merry. But each time, Frodo himself grew weaker and weaker.

When all three of his dear ones were lying on the shore of the Water, he checked for breath. Not one had been saved. "NOOOO!" Frodo screamed again, and held each of his frends’s bodies in turn. Somehow all the Tooks, Brandybucks, and Gamgees were suddenly around him, shouting his name.

"You could have saved him!"

"What’s the matter with you?"

"How could you let this happen?"

And from the crowd emerged Bilbo. Frodo ran to him, but Bilbo shook his head and kept Frodo at a distance. "No, Frodo Baggins. I want nothing to do with you. Get away from me. And you didn’t even try to save that lass!"

Lass? Frodo thought desperately. He glanced over to where his dear ones lay and found that Bluebell lay among them. Mrs. Brockhouse turned angrily to him. "You! You

Frodo ran sobbing and crying, "No!" over and over again. Finally he tripped and fell into the water where darkness took him.must leave the Shire! You’ve killed four Hobbits!"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

TBC....

You know me...cliff hangers, as usual. And, QG, you should've *known* I'd cut it off at this place... *smiling innocently at you*