Chapter Thirteen

Penny Brandybuck was not a little worried.  Kira’s condition had been improving steadily through late December and into January, to the point that the doctor had scheduled his next appointment as late as the next month.  But now she had taken a turn for the worse.  The poor girl’s nightmares—which she dearly wished Kira would stop, though she knew she couldn’t help it—were not occurring nightly anymore, but when Penny came in to check on her during the still nights she was in that same strange faint that she had been in before.  Penny questioned her about it, but Kira was evasive as always and could only say that, yes, the “blackness,” as she called it, was happening more often than she’d like.  After the first occurrence she had decided to wait it out and see if it would go away on its own before asking the doctor.  And it had appeared to, for a month.  But now it had come back with a vengeance, and she knew it was serious—all the more so because Kira was so close-mouthed about it.  But Dr. Grimwig needed to see her and judge for himself, and Penny couldn’t very well go and fetch him, or even talk to him in private, without Rosemary at last suspecting that something was wrong.  If at all possible, Penny would rather spare her sister the trouble and settle it privately.  She did not need any more grief in her life.

So Penny just hoped, until the doctor’s next visit, that nothing would go wrong.

She went out to meet him, without trying to seem too worried, but there was only a small space of time to talk to him before Rosemary came out, too.  But the doctor caught her meaningful looks, and gathered that somehow, against the expected turn of things, Kira’s state had worsened.

He said nothing as he went through listening to her lungs, checking her pulse and temperature; but after they had all retired into the parlour Penny could tell they were going to have a bit of a talk.

“I don’t know what to say,” said the doctor.  “She has worsened, that’s for sure.”

“She looks so tired,” said Rosemary.  “Though she doesn’t cry out at night as much as she used to, so perhaps she isn’t as troubled she was.  But I truly cannot see what could be wrong with her!  She should be recovering by now!”

“There are no troubles with her heart—it may be a little weaker than usual, but she’s been perfectly well with worse than her current condition.  I would agree that she seems a little anaemic, but that is understandable since she can’t be active over the winter.  Penny, was she anything like this last year?”

Penny shook her head.  “She may not have been the liveliest girl in the Hall, but she was… restive.  Her legs twitched in bed when she grew bored.”

“And that is how she has always been over the winter,” Rosemary added.  “I think she wants to be active—she was working quite hard on her lacework until recently—but can’t.  I don’t understand it.”

“Sometimes these things fluctuate,” said Dr. Grimwig.  “I wouldn’t consider it too concerning unless it keeps up for more than two weeks—I’ll drop in and see how she’s doing then, in fact.  Remember that you can’t always expect a fast recovery.”

“You think that nothing is wrong then?” said Rosemary.

“I would not say that.  But I do not think that anything is seriously wrong—not unless she stays this way for a long time, or she worsens.”

Penny was shocked.  Was he just saying this to comfort her sister, or did he genuinely believe that this was nothing?  “Doctor…” she said, but good sense restrained her from saying anything more in Rosemary’s presence.  She waited until he was outside, saddling his pony, and made sure that Rosemary was occupied with preparing some food.

“There was more you wanted to talk to me about?” he said.

She nodded.  “The nights that she hasn’t had nightmares—they’ve been worse for her.  I think they’re what are making her so tired.  She… she faints.  Only it’s more than faints; she looks near death when it happens.  I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Dr. Grimwig turned to face her.  “How often?”

“It happened to her first when she found out that her book was gone, she told me.  Then, later, when I questioned her about why she was persisting in being so sad.  But it stopped last month, and now in the past week it’s come back twice!  What could have come over her?  Is this anything normal?”

He dropped the reins from his hands.  “I’ve never heard of it before, not in patients I’ve had or even in my reading.  If the condition happens at night, if it has anything to do with those dreams, I’d suggest a draught that would help her to sleep better.  But the faint itself sounds very strange.  What exactly happened?”

And Penny described the events with as much detail as she could manage.  “I fear for her.”

“As do I.  But remember:  she is stouter than she seems; no one thought she would survive when she was born.”

“That was Rosemary’s doing, though.  If love could pour life—”

“And I’m certain that she’s doing all in her power to keep her alive and well, even now.  But I am glad that you did not leave her when I suggested; fear can cloud judgment and Rosemary needs someone to look after her.  Passing through such dreadful trials; it is no surprise that Kira’s dreams are difficult.  Maybe that strange faint you described is just her own way of getting rid of them, and when they start to go away on their own she won’t need it anymore.”

Penny opened her mouth to object, but the doctor went on.

“You see, Penny, so much of my job isn’t setting splints or giving people potions.  There’s no better cure-all to a hobbit than his—or her, in Kira’s case—own spirit.  Most of the time they heal themselves and give me all the credit, because I happened to be there at the time.  How many times has Rosemary come to me with her child’s problems, and all I can prescribe is rest and the things she loves most?  That’s common sense, there, not high learning.  They just need me to look to her foot from time to time, and her heart, so that we can tell if there’s any danger for her, maybe give her something that might help her feel better.  But the getting well?  That’s her job.  You and Rosemary worry about Kira because you love her.  I worry, too, but I’m also sensible enough to know that in such a young heart she’ll be able to sort things out.  All she needs is a little more time.”

“So the fainting doesn’t concern you much?”

He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Let’s see what happens first.”

*  *  *

With hope in her heart Penny observed Kira in preparation for the doctor’s next visit.  At first she did not seem to overtire any more, though even with calming draughts the faints persisted in much the same way.  But at least Kira did not seem to be as troubled when she dreamt.

But then Kira spit up one of her meals.  Rosemary tried to put a calm face about it for the rest of the day, but at night when Kira was sleeping she shattered.

“What’s wrong with her?”  Though she whispered it, the simple question could not have been more raw, more powerful, not even if she had screamed it from the hilltop.

Penny sank down on the bed beside her, putting an arm around her shoulder and suppressing her own cares.  Rosemary was doing an admirable job of weeping silently, but the sobs wracked her body.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” said Penny.  “Something disagreed with her.  The draughts, maybe?”  But Dr. Grimwig had said not to use them frequently, and the girl had not been given one for two nights.

“No, it’s something, and you know that just as I do.  She’s ill, Penny, and we can’t even try stopping it if we don’t know what it is.  We should call the doctor tomorrow.”

“He doesn’t seem to think that Kira has anything she can’t take care of herself.  Let’s wait and see if it repeats itself; it could be wholly unrelated to… to her fatigue.”

“I just can’t understand it.  If we were to lose her, it should have been when she was nearly drowned, or just afterward.  She shouldn’t be slipping away now, when she was just getting better!  What sort of horrid thing could be draining all the life from her like this?”

Endless grief for a foolish book, thought Penny.  “I don’t know.”

“And why can’t we stop it?”

“Hush, Rose.”  Rosemary buried her head in her sister’s shoulder, and Penny laid a hand on her hair, smoothing down the ringlets, as she had done whenever Rosemary got herself into a scrape so many years ago.  “We won’t lose Kira, because you love her, and she loves you.  If she can help it she’ll get better.”

“And if she can’t?”

“She can.  She has before, and Dr. Grimwig thinks it isn’t nearly as bad as we do.  I trust his judgment.”

But before the two weeks that the doctor had given Kira were over, she spit up twice more.  Third time’s the charm, Penny thought grimly, and summoned Dr. Grimwig the next morning.  “I used all the discretion and patience that I could,” she told him as they hurried over to the smial.  “But three times in less than two weeks—she must be getting worse, Doctor.”

“And what of the fainting spells?”

“They’re just about as frequent, but I think they’re lasting longer.  Perhaps if you could manage to observe her one night…”

“Does your sister know about this?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.  Then I shall only do that if I think it is the one way I can help Kira, for Rosemary’s sake.  I’ll speak to Kira about it, if you can contrive your sister to leave the room.  She’s really gotten worse?”

Penny nodded, feeling her throat clam up.

“I’ll do whatever is in my power to help her, then.”

But when she took private conference with him after he had examined Kira, he could offer neither explanation nor cure.  “You talked with her about the spells she’s been having?”

“Yes, and she’s as close-mouthed about them to me as she was to you.  She’s hiding something from us—from all of us.  Either that or she’s trying to tell us and we can’t understand her.  She said that she dreamed of water, and once the water covered her the spells started.  She said something about arguing with the water, too, which frightens me.  If I didn’t know better I’d say she was…”

“Moonstruck?”

“If I didn’t know better.  Or at least sick to the soul.  And I’ve heard next to nothing about soul-hurts; most people don’t think they even exist.  Relics of a bygone era…”

“Like that book.  Do you think it has something to do with the dreams and fits?”

“I think it has everything to do with them.  She’s grieved for it too long.  How I wish the winter were over—maybe then she could start to move on from it!”

“She did seem to when Daffodil first visited her at Yule.  Something must have changed, though.”

“Did the nightmares keep up then?”

“Yes, mostly.”

“Then she didn’t really let go of all that grief, I’d say.  And she probably won’t until spring.  I’ll visit her more regularly now, so that we can keep her going until then.”

“Keep her going?  Is it serious, then?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t think so, but I shouldn’t like to find out.”

So the visits increased back to weekly, then every three days, but Kira continued to get worse, and even Dr. Grimwig was starting to feel helpless.  Kira spat up.  Kira lost her appetite.  Kira grew more tired, more withdrawn.  And Rosemary was starting to panic.

Finally, with great sorrow in his eye, the doctor consented to observe Kira as one of the black spells fell on her.  So Penny explained to Rosemary that they were going to look at Kira while she slept, and see if that would offer them any clues as to what exactly was afflicting her.  With difficulty she was able to persuade Rosemary to get her own rest and not interfere.  Then, taking blankets and chairs, she and the doctor stole into Kira’s bedroom, keeping vigil through the night.

*  *  *

There were voices at her elbow, though she knew they had to be farther away than that.  They thought she was asleep.

They should know better, Kira thought.

Kira was not asleep, though she knew that she should be.  But she didn’t want the dreams, and she didn’t want the blackness, so her only other option was to lay awake in lethargy.

“Your thoughts?” one of the voices was saying.  That would be her aunt.

“Kira’s case has me flummoxed—or had, I should say.  I think I’m beginning to understand.”  That voice was male; it had to be Dr. Grimwig’s.

“Really?”

“Well, as I told you, I’ve never seen or even heard of this fainting thing.  But I keep on dwelling on everything else, and on her grief, and I think I may have come upon something that would explain it.  But, no—it shouldn’t be, not in her, not in someone so young!”

“What is it?”

“The weariness, the loss of food, of appetite—they happen often to the elderly, particularly if a loved one has died.”

“What causes it, then?”

“Grief.  Missing someone who can never come back, to the point that the body wants to join them.”

“What?”  Aunt Penny’s voice came out in a whisper.

“I… I don’t know.”  Dr. Grimwig had never sounded this shaken before.  “Some part of them loses the will to go on living.  They can get beyond it, sometimes, but depending on how dear the departed was, more often than not they die.”

For a while Kira could hear nothing, until she wondered if the whispered conversation was just her fancy.  But then Aunt Penny spoke again.  “And this is what’s been hurting her?  Will she die?”

“I don’t know—it happens only to the old, who, having had a long, full, life, are growing weary.  It shouldn’t be affecting her; she has so much ahead!”

“But is it, Doctor?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“If it is, will she die?”

“I hope not.  Illnesses can only get better or worse.  If they stay the same for a long time, they wear away the one who is afflicted.  But don’t despair—nobody thought Kira would make it when she was born.  Her grief is strong, but if you can find a way to mend it, she may recover.”

The conversation faltered, then died.

Kira squeezed her eyes further shut and tried not to think about it.  Dying?  Dying?  She couldn’t be; she didn’t want to!

But she remembered her island, and how her aunt said she looked when one of the fits came over her.  It was the closest thing to rest that she could find, and it made her take on the form of death.  She should have guessed sooner, really.

Her heart was pounding within her, as all her senses turned to war against her and each other.  Was this thing right or wrong?  If it was right, then there was nothing to worry about.  If wrong, then how, how in the Shire could she fight it?  Was she even supposed to?  But she felt weary, weary from the struggle, and when she felt the black wave rising behind her she did not even turn to face it.  It washed over her.

*  *  *

Dr. Grimwig stood up so fast he knocked the chair over, only heaving a sigh of relief when he checked the girl’s pulse.  Penny, who had grown somewhat accustomed to Kira’s spells, had risen more sedately and followed.

“How frightening,” he said.  “I’m afraid this doesn’t clear up any of the confusions I had, either.  If anything it makes them worse.  Penny, you must do everything in your power to keep her well, at least until the spring.  Then I might be able to hope more.  You know Rosemary would be heartbroken without her.”

Penny nodded.

“And I would not wish to see this illness afflict two.  Kira is all your sister has left.”

“I know that, Doctor.  Why do you think I stayed?”

*  *  *

Daffodil had, in the meantime, been visiting Kira on a regular basis, though Kira had dropped the art of lace-making for some strange reason.  And she, too, had been witness to her friend’s deterioration, and it gripped her heart like a strangler’s hold.  Almost two weeks after the doctor’s chilling diagnosis she decided that there was nothing to it but a quick and hopefully painless confrontation.

It started out well enough, with the idle conversation and laughter that normally filled their time together, but both of them could sense the ease leaving the room as the inevitable questions brought themselves to the fore of Daffy’s mind.  “When do you think it’ll be warm enough for you to get up and about?” she asked Kira.

Kira shrugged.  “I haven’t really thought about it too much, actually.”

“Well, it’s mid-March.  Spring will be here before you know it.  Roly and Tom both want to see you again.”

“In which case they would have visited,” Kira muttered.

“Don’t be absurd, Kira!” said Daffodil, trying to stay buoyant.  “Roly’s still in bed when I come to visit you, and you know he doesn’t like doing that sort of thing by himself.  And Tom?  He’s tried, but your mother refused him.”

“Excellent!  I don’t want to have to see him again!”

“Kira!”

“What?”

“You… you aren’t going to let the events of the fall ruin a perfectly good friendship, are you?  He is sorry, I told you that already.”

“Is he sorry about the book?”

Daffodil thought about this.  “I don’t know.  I don’t expect he is.”

“Then I don’t want to see him again.”

“Oh, for heavens’ sakes, Kira—that was what, last November?  I’d have thought you’d be over that by now.”

“Be over it?  How can I be over it when it’s gone?”

“Kira, I understand it meant a lot to you, but it’s only a—”

“It’s not only a book!  It’s our history, our heritage!  Our last ties to the Elder Days!  And nobody can understand that!”

“If it’s that important, Kira, wouldn’t they have made copies?”

She shook her head.  “Not complete ones.  They did copy all the Travellers’ Tales, but not all the elvish stuff.”

“Elves?  Do you really believe the things in there happened?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe in elves, too, then?”

“Yes.”

Daffodil’s jaw swung down.  “How?”

Kira gave another one of those miserable shrugs, and dashed her hand against her eyes.  “There’s no ‘how’ to it.  I just do.  And now it’s gone.”

Daffodil was at a loss for words.  Hesitantly she touched Kira’s shoulder, but Kira drew back.  “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, Daffy, and I’m terribly frightened.  You see what a horrible wreck I am.  I know I should trust and love you—you’re my best friend, after all—but I can’t, at least not the trust.  Even if you saved my life.  But I trusted you, once upon a time, you and Roly and Tom.  You let me down.  And then you took away from me the one thing I still trusted, and I don’t know what I’m to do anymore.  I’m dying, Daffodil.  The doctor said so.”

“Dying?  You’re pulling the—”

“Well, he doesn’t know for sure, but he says I am if I’m ill from the grief and whatnot, and I can’t get better if I can’t stop the grief.  And if he doesn’t know that’s why I’m so pale and tired, I do, and I sure as Shiretalk know that I can’t stop it, even if everyone—me included, sometimes—tells me to.  Go ahead and tell Tom that, and see if he’s sorry about the book.”

“Kira, you may be sick, but you aren’t dying.  Another couple of weeks and it’ll be spring, and you’ll feel far better.”  She took both of Kira’s hands in her own.  “And then you’ll be able to get out of bed, and come outdoors, and the whole world will be green and beautiful and everything can go back to normal.  And we’ll all play together in the meadows outside, and there won’t be any distractions nor anything to drive wedges between us.  We could pretend the whole of last year was a nightmare, couldn’t we?  And then things would go back to the way they’ve always been.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Kira.  “I don’t think things could ever go back, because I can’t go back even if you can.  I can’t go out and play in the fallow fields, much less conspire with Tom at the canal, and act as if nothing ever happened.  Daffy, I may not even be around when spring comes.  I don’t see anything in that season—except maybe fresher food—that would make life more worth living than it is now during this wretched winter.  And I can’t even enjoy the food if all I do is spit it up.  Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother with everything anymore.”

“At least we’re still your friends, Kira.  You know that much.”

“No, I don’t.  I don’t know anything anymore.”

Daffodil rose.  “Well, I know it, even if you don’t.  And you’d best not forget it either, while you’re moping.  You’re not the only person that’s had a wretched winter this year, Kira.”  She ran from the room and slammed the door behind her, fighting her tears until she could collapse outside the smial and weep for everything that had gone so horribly wrong.

*  *  *

Kira was fairly certain that Aunt Penny was displeased Daffodil wasn’t visiting now, but offered no explanation for what may or may not have happened.  In the meantime, each day became more difficult for her than the last, even if spring was around the bend.  She no longer indulged in long bemusements of how all this wretchedness could have come to pass, because it only made her spirits heavier still.  If she closed her eyes for but a second she was on her island, and the blackness was there, too.  She didn’t know how much longer she could bear it, but she knew in her heart that at some point things had to come to a head.  And then, what woe!

The nightmares were mostly gone now, either replaced with the blackness or drowned out with the draughts, which Kira sometimes wished she could have more of, even if they left a bitter taste on her tongue.

But one more stole behind her unawares at night, and dragged her forcibly into its grasp.

She woke up with a shriek, and it must have been louder than any she had had yet, because almost instantly Mother entered the room.

“Kira?  What is it?”

It took a few more seconds for Kira to get her bearings on her setting and reality.  “Nothing, Mother.  It was just a dream.”

Mother knelt beside the bed.  “The same dreams you always have?”

She shrugged.  “Similar, though each one seems to be unique.  Don’t worry; it’s not that bad.”

“Kira, it must have been bad if it woke you up like that!  Won’t you please tell me what was wrong?  What was your dream?”

“You wouldn’t understand it, Mother.”

“Tell me anyway.  You need to get better.”

Kira chewed on her lip.  “You’ll think it stupid.”

“Trust me, Kira.  I won’t.  I love you.”

Kira took a deep breath.  “All right, though I don’t see how it’ll help.

“Every time, it seems to be different—at least, a different start.  They all end up the same.  This time it was one of the legends I had read.  It was about the Two Trees of Light, created before the sun or the moon or even mortals like us.  They had just been created, and all the people in the tale were happy.  Then it started to rain.”  She faltered and looked away.

“And then?”

Kira looked back at her mother, to make sure she wasn’t too confused and really did still want to hear the rest of it.  “The rain washed everything away, like a painting, but the people and the Trees were still there.  It hurt them, I could see.  They were crying out—crying out at me.  And I couldn’t do anything to save them.  I couldn’t even wake up.  Sometimes—sometimes, Mother, I wonder if they’re angry with me, over there in the west, or just incredibly sad at all that’s happened.”

“Kira, there’s nothing but Ocean and fairy-stories in the West.  You still know that, right?”

She nodded.  “Yes, I do know that.  That’s why I wonder.”

“Are all your dreams like that?”

“Except for the story it starts out with, yes.”

“And they’re all from your reading?”

“Yes.”

Mother paused, thinking this over.  “Then Kira, I want you to do something for me.  I want you to try and forget all the things you read.  They’re just giving you bad dreams, and they’re likely also keeping you from getting better.  All that reading—it was something you never should have done, and now you’re getting the grief for it.  If you’d just leave it all behind you we could forget this ever happened.  Please, Kira, I want you to get well.”

The blood drained from Kira’s face.  She looked at Mother as if she had just stabbed her in the stomach.  “No!” she cried.  “I can’t do that.  I’m supposed to keep it alive!”

“It’s hurting you, Kira, can’t you see that?”

“Yes, but letting it die would hurt even more.”

“Just let it go, love.  You can’t know for sure if you haven’t tried.”

“Mum…”  She closed her eyes, ready to let the tears out, but the blackness had returned and it was rising.  No! she thought to it.  Wait till Mother’s gone!

And yet a sudden longing rose within her, one that immediately turned her insides in revolt, to let it wash over her, to be swallowed in its embrace.  It was against every desire she had ever had—and yet it was there.  Your life is in ruins, it thought.  Everyone you know has turned against you.  You’re dying, remember?

Perhaps some part of her resisted, but Kira was too weak.  She faced the blackness and stretched out her arms towards it, willing it to wipe away all her misery.

*  *  *

Kira opened her eyes.  The blackness had finally ebbed away from her, leaving her worn beyond all measure.  Painfully she raised herself from bed; it was lighter in her room than she last remembered.  Dawn was creeping in through the window.  She must have been out for a while, then.  The morning light reached across the room, but it did not fall on the grey figure bent over on the stool next to her.

What have I done? thought Kira as she gazed in horror upon her mother.  It was not just the dimness that made her look ashen, nor the angle of the light that shadowed her eyes.  Her lips were cracked, and her hair unkempt; yet the most frightening thing of all was the blank look of despair that haunted her face even in sleep.  Beautiful, darling Mother…

Kira laid her hand on Mother’s knee, but the apologies she thought of died on her lips.  None of them were worthy.

Mother opened her eyes and turned to her.  “Kira?” she said, half in wonder, tears starting in her eyes.  “My child!  You’ve come back!”  She pulled Kira into an embrace, managing to laugh and cry at the same time.  Kira let herself be comforted in the hug, but somehow it wasn’t as strong as she remembered, to the point that she was afraid of hugging back and breaking her like a twig.

“I’m so sorry, dear, for… for whatever it was I did.  How, how did you manage to come back?”

The door to Kira’s room opened.  “I told you she would, Rosemary,” said Aunt Penny.  “She just took longer than normal.”  She flashed an accusatory look at Kira.

“Oh, no,” said Kira, as she realised what her spell must have looked like.  “You didn’t think I’d died, did you, Mum?”

Mother shook her head.  “Only at first.  But you were so close, I couldn’t see you returning…”  With that a fresh burst of tears came out, and while she was sobbing into her hanky they turned into hacking coughs.

Aunt Penny stood Mother up from the stool.  “But she has, and you need to get some rest.  I shall have a word with Kira.”

“But—”

“I will watch over her, Rosemary.  I can’t have you catching ill on me, can I?”  Gently but firmly, she guided Kira’s mother out of the room.  A minute later she came back in, seated herself, and closed the door behind her.  “We need to talk,” she said.

“What about?” said Kira, even though she didn’t need to.

“You are dying, Kira.”

Kira fidgeted a little in bed.  “And?”

“Kira, this is no small matter!  Whatever this awful sleep is, it’s taking control of you.  You were gone for longer than a day!”

She put a hand to her head.  “That long?”

“Yes, and your mother found out about it!  We thought—I thought, though I didn’t dare tell her—that you were going to die!  And I had to see her heart break all over again.  I told you not to let her see those spells of yours.”

“I tried…”

“You’re not just killing yourself, Kira.”

And at last Kira looked down in her lap and said, “I’m sorry.”

Penny put her arm around her, drew her up to her breast, and patted down the curls.  “I suppose you can’t entirely understand, because you weren’t there the first time.  It was so hard for her, I was afraid she was going to die of heartache.  But she didn’t, Kira, because she had you, and you kept her hoping.

“I know she never told you much about him; the grief was too close to her heart.  But your father was one of the most beloved hobbits in the whole of the Farthing.  Our families ran into one another a lot because we lived not ten miles from Michel Delving, which isn’t that far if you have a pony.  And the Proudfoots had traditionally lived in Michel Delving, and still had a lot of business to handle there, and so much happens in town that we all got to be on good terms with one another.  Well, your parents got feelings for each other, after a time, and I still remember the look of joy on my little sister’s face when she told me that Lagro Proudfoot had spoken to her.  I nearly wept for joy.  And when they did marry, I didn’t think there could be two happier hobbits in the whole of the Shire.

“The Proudfoot clan was quite large at the time, and most of those that remained on the White Downs lived in town, but your father had a weak constitution.  One of the families was moving to a new house in the Westmarch, so it was agreed that he and his new wife could settle in their own smial, which was fairly secluded and out in the country.  They thought that if he farmed the fields attached to it, his condition would improve over time and he would be better suited to raising a family.  They could never have been more wrong.

“About five months after they had been married and settled themselves in this very hole, I heard that your mother was with child.  I, of course, was already married with a brood of my own at Brandy Hall; but when my sister’s time drew close I went back to the Westfarthing to help her deliver.

“It was the day after I had arrived, I remember.  The babe wasn’t quite due yet, but at the first signs I was supposed to run out and fetch the midwife from town.  Well, I was helping your mother sew some clothes for the new arrival, when there came a knock on the door.  I answered it.  I had never seen the hobbit who was there before, but he said that he had found your father lying on his back in the fields outside.  He was in trouble.

“We both ran out immediately, your mother as fast as she could in her condition, and sent the messenger to town to find the doctor.  Lagro was still alive, when we found him.  But he only lasted a few minutes.  It all happened so fast; we didn’t know what was wrong, nor what to do about it.  But I will say this: if love could give life, you would have a father in your home, dear.  And I hope no one will ever weep as your mother wept over him.

“His death put her into a great deal of distress, and before I knew it I was running out, too, bringing the midwife and hoping that the day would not bring more tragedy.  But you were born safely.  You were a pretty little thing, but you’d been born early and your right foot had formed wrong.  You were so weak, folk thought you weren’t going to make it through your first year, especially with your poor father’s heart.  Many of them thought it’d be better for you in the long run.  But your mother loved you, and you did not die.

“Now there was no one to look after both of you, and most people assumed that your mother would just go back to her family and raise you there; but my sister didn’t want to give up her new life so easily.  So she gathered her wits about her, and sold the field in back of the smial—to your friend Daffodil’s family, I believe.  She used the money to take care of you, and later to start up a herb garden on top of the hole so she could make enough money to support you.  Even if she couldn’t spend as much time with you as she wanted, she always had you and your well-being in mind.

“People say what they will, but you saved her life when you came, and I was glad you survived because it meant she did, too.  So don’t you dare give up living, Kira.  You’re all she has left.”

For a minute the room was silent.

“What am I supposed to do?” said Kira.

“Live, Kira.  I’m not fool enough to tell you to give up on your books, not anymore—can’t say I’ll ever understand it, but I know I can’t fight it—but at the same time you can’t always be looking back on what happened, to your book or to you.  While you’re doing that life’s happening around you, and you’re letting it pass you by.  You’ve got to keep going, Kira, even when it hurts.  Even if you don’t think you can bear it, you still can and you still will, because other people need you to and they’re counting on you.  And no, I don’t understand you and I don’t understand your book, but I do understand pain and loss because that’s a part and parcel of life.  If I wasn’t there for you before this it’s only because I didn’t take your own loss seriously enough, and I hope you’ll forgive me.

“You can’t do anything about the past, but you can do something with the here and now, and the less time you spend wishing life could have been different the more time you have to make better the days ahead.

“I’m not asking you to forget, Kira, and I’m not asking you to suddenly become all smiles the way you used to be.  I’m just asking you to keep going.  Life won’t get better right away, but it’s too good to give up on.  Even when it’s hard, if you look carefully you can find reminders of pleasantries and hold on to them.”

A bird trilled outside.

“There—there’s one for you.”  Aunt Penny got up, peered out the window, and opened it.  The morning sunlight pooled in, colouring the poor little sickroom with life, and the chill air of winter streamed in.  Instinctively Kira smelled it, and found to her unexpected delight the scent of dirt embedded within.  “It’s a robin,” said Aunt Penny.  “The first robin of spring.  The snows are melting, and if they’re gone by April, there’ll be feasting in Hobbiton.  You’ll be able to get out of bed again, too.  I’m sure that if you’re up to it you could go to the spring party.  I think it’d do you good.”  She closed the shutters, for fear of the cold making her niece ill, and turned to her.  “Kira, will you go outside again?”

Kira thought for a few moments, recalling how happy she had been last spring and how happy Mother had been, too.  “Yes,” she said.  “Yes, I will.”  I promise I won’t forget, Frodo, she added in her thought.  But I can’t let Mother die, either.