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.