41. Consequences

"Do you know what problems your foolishness has caused with the farmers, boy?" Rorimac Brandybuck shouted over the noise of the party preparations going on outside. Merry's birthday festivities would begin in a matter of hours.

Frodo, wisely, said nothing, and continued to stare at the pattern of leaves formed in the rug on the floor of Uncle Rory's study. He knew full well he deserved this tirade, and more.

"Maggot's furious, of course," the master of Brandy Hall continued. "Why, the last time we offended that lot, we wound up paying nearly double for the turnip crop. Nearly double."

Frodo looked up briefly to see Rorimac still pacing angrily behind his desk. He did not know his mother's eldest brother well; he was reportedly tough on everyone, but not unjust. Most of the younger Brandybucks were a little afraid of him and his cantankerous ways, and Frodo had been no exception. One never knew where one stood with Old Rory.

"He's a sneaky old fox, that Maggot," Rorimac muttered, then, raising his voice again, "You lads, you just can't leave well enough alone, can you! You're lucky he didn't give you the thrashing of your life, you impudent pup."

Frodo returned his uncle's gaze. He happened to hold the same opinion; when Maggot had caught him trespassing years ago he hadn't hesitated to mete out an appropriate punishment. This time the farmer had blistered his ears with an angry diatribe, but had turned him over to Rory otherwise unscathed.

"That's not like Maggot, no indeed," Rory was shaking his head. "How the devil did you pacify him, boy?" He paused by the window, rolling a rheumy brown eye in Frodo's direction.

"I—I apologized," Frodo said awkwardly.

Rory stared. "Well, it's good to see you have some manners. I had begun to suppose Bilbo was letting you run wild over there."

"No, sir," Frodo lifted his chin slightly. Bilbo might not care for the opinions of others, but Frodo wouldn't be the cause of any additional slander if he could help it.

Rorimac sighed and slumped down in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Frodo swallowed nervously, realizing that the shouting was over and it was time for punishment to be handed down.

"You've disappointed me, Frodo," Rory said, looking up at the lad standing before him. "I might have expected this from one of the others, but not from you. I thought you were above purposely causing trouble for folks. The Maggots are a less powerful clan than are we Brandybucks, but it's our responsibility not to take advantage."

Frodo couldn't hold his gaze any longer and looked down, his face burning with shame.

Rorimac regarded the bent head measuringly. "You may think I'm holding you to a higher standard than many of the lads here, and you would be right. You always were different, boy," he said. "Special. Primula said so on the day you were born. If we've expected more from you, it's only because we know you have it in you."

Frodo stared hard at the carpet, his eyes burning.

"You think no one notices much of anything around here, but that ain't true," the old hobbit snapped irritably. "I lost her too; I know it's rough sometimes."

"Yes, sir," Frodo whispered. Rorimac had always seemed so stern and unapproachable; Frodo had never thought much about his parents' deaths affecting others... He was not the only one to have suffered a loss that day.

"But that's no excuse for shaming your family," Rory went on.

Frodo nodded miserably.

"In any case, you're Bilbo's responsibility now," Rory said, pausing in the doorway to look back at the pale tweenager. "He'll punish you as he sees fit, so run along and find him."

Frodo remained in the empty study a moment longer, feeling sick. He wished Rory had punished him; he hated the thought of putting Bilbo in this position. Bilbo always thought so highly of him... Frodo hadn't wanted him to find out about this at all.

The tween drew a deep breath to steady himself, then walked into the hall. His heart was heavy; what would Bilbo do? Frodo wasn't too old for a beating, but somehow he didn't think Bilbo could bear that. He didn't think he could bear that, but it would still be better than seeing Bilbo's disappointment; the old hobbit was as fond of mischief as anyone, but Frodo knew he had crossed the line between harmless fun and wilful defiance.

Frodo approached the door to their guest room and pushed it open slowly. Bilbo was standing by the window, gazing outside, but he turned to regard Frodo.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

"They tell me you've been stealing from a farmer," Bilbo said abruptly. He didn't look angry, but his voice was stern.

The tween nodded. He couldn't make himself speak.

"I can't imagine why you would do such a thing, Frodo," the old hobbit said, looking at Frodo as if he had never seen him before. "It isn't like you to be so thoughtless. You wouldn't be so disrespectful to Hamfast Gamgee, surely?"

"I'm sorry, Bilbo. Please forgive me." Frodo apologized miserably, after searching for something to say and coming up empty.

"Of course I forgive you," Bilbo sighed heavily, and gestured vaguely to Frodo's best clothes laid out on the bed. "You'd better get dressed for the party."

Frodo nodded wretchedly. He was getting off easy, but that didn't make him feel any better. He hated that he was the cause of Bilbo's sadness and disappointment. "Can we leave tomorrow, Uncle?" Frodo made himself ask. He didn't think he could stand another day here.

Bilbo's brown eyes regarded him sadly. "Certainly, if that's what you want."

Frodo looked at the floor uncomfortably. It would be such a pity to end this visit on a bad note. The blood rushed in his ears; the bitter memories and uncertainties would never leave him.

"Well, I'll leave you to get dressed," Bilbo said finally, stepping into the hall and reaching for the doorknob to give Frodo some privacy.

"I went to my parents' smial," Frodo said suddenly, not looking up.

Bilbo paused with the door half shut. After a moment he came back into the room and closed the door behind him.

Frodo took a deep breath and glanced at the old hobbit, the cousin who had done so much over the years.

Bilbo stood watching him, his expression unreadable.

Frodo's throat was dry, but he made himself speak. Bilbo deserved an explanation. "I didn't mean to go there..." he said haltingly. "It's just where I ended up."

Bilbo merely said "Tell me."

The words spilled out of Frodo, about how he didn't like to think of his parents, and how everything here reminded him of them in a way it hadn't when he lived here as a younger lad. How complicated everything was because of their absence. The unfairness of being stuck having others think he was imposing on Bilbo no matter the circumstances. The indignity of having to put up with folks saying the most dreadful things about how his parents died, and Frodo unable to refute any of it because he didn't remember.

"What do you mean, lad?" Bilbo interrupted at this point, his voice quiet.

"Do you know of the—the tale that is sometimes told?"

Bilbo nodded grimly.

"When I was there... When I was at their smial..." Why was this so difficult?

Bilbo waited silently until Frodo could make himself continue.

"I remembered parts of that day." Bilbo looked startled now, and Frodo hurried on before he could interrupt. "Not all of it, but enough to know I was on that boat. But I don't remember what happened, Bilbo. For all I know, those people could be right."

Frodo paused for breath. There, he'd said it. The statement hung briefly in the air like poison.

"Those people are not right, Frodo, and I don't care who remembers what," Bilbo said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Mama and Dad were fighting that day," Frodo admitted quietly.

Bilbo didn't seem to know what to say to that, and for a moment he could only stare at his young ward, his brown eyes pained. "Your parents weren't perfect, Frodo," the old hobbit said at last, his voice soft, "but they did love each other, and you, as much as anyone can love another. Never doubt that."

"I—I believe you," Frodo said, his eyes burning. "I just—I suppose the uncertainty will always trouble me. No one knows what really happened. I wish I knew, if only for myself." Frodo stared fixedly at the carpet under his feet and finished in a choked whisper, "I'd give anything to have them back, Bilbo. I'd give anything to have them back and to never have lived with you at all."

Frodo stopped, shocked at his rudeness. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the hurt, angry expression on Bilbo's face.

"Frodo."

Frodo didn't move. He was trembling with horror at what he'd just said; nothing in Middle Earth would induce him to look up at Bilbo at that moment.

"Frodo, look at me." Bilbo's voice was soft and compassionate.

Except that. Frodo thought perhaps he should beg Bilbo's forgiveness, but his voice refused to cooperate. He lifted his head, defiant and terrified at the same time.

"I'm sorry, Uncle," Frodo heard himself say desperately before Bilbo had a chance to open his mouth. "I know I should be grateful for all you've done for me, and I am, I just can’t—I'm so sorry..."

"Do you really think so little of me, Frodo?" Bilbo asked him quietly. "Has it not occurred to you that I, too, would wish to have your parents back with you where they belong? Can you not imagine what I would have given to spare you this pain, and for myself to have the comfort of two very dear friends?"

Frodo stared at him dumbly.

"My dear boy," Bilbo sighed. "You are so clever and knowledgeable about so many things, but when it comes to matters close to your heart, you are a ninnyhammer, as Sam's Gaffer would say. No, I could not call you ungrateful. I don't see how gratitude enters into it at all. It is a cruel hand that fate has dealt you, and we are making the best we can of these circumstances. Having me for your guardian will always be second-best, and there is no shame in saying so."

Frodo blinked. "I've felt so isolated here, and I—I thought you'd be angry, Bilbo," he said lamely.

"You could have come to me, lad." The old hobbit was still sitting there, regarding him sympathetically. "And here I simply thought you wanted to be left to your own devices, have a break from your old uncle." Bilbo smiled slightly to soften his words.

"No!" Frodo exclaimed in surprise. "You've given up so much to take me in, Bilbo. I thought the least I could do was let you spend time with other adults and do as you wished, without being troubled by me. Not that I succeeded even in that!" the tween added, thinking of his ill-advised escapades.

"Well, I do wish you had come to me, but I could never be angry with you for being honest," Bilbo said, smiling at him now. "Although the reasons for your recent behaviour are becoming clearer. Grief is a deucedly tricky thing, but better dealt with out in the open. You never know when it will up and seize you, and it drives one to do the most inexplicable things. Tell me, did those ill-gotten mushrooms ease your mind more than I would have if you had told me what was bothering you earlier?"

"No, Uncle," Frodo said with a wry laugh. "In fact, I couldn't bear to eat them. I hid most of them in the stable, and the ponies got to them."

"Most of them?" Bilbo inquired.

Frodo shifted, embarrassed. "I left a few under a fence post. I suppose I should retrieve them for Farmer Maggot."

"Nonsense, lad," Bilbo said, brown eyes twinkling. "Maggot was furious—although he did seem rather impressed with you, curiously. Something about facing the music like a real hobbit, and not crawling away like a worm. In any case, it would be best to leave it alone."

Frodo looked at Bilbo in surprise. "Wh-what are you suggesting, Uncle?" he asked incredulously.

Bilbo got to his feet and opened the door. "I didn't have much appetite at second breakfast, my boy. I feel the need for a snack! Some nice mushrooms, perhaps. I trust you selected nice ones?"

"Bilbo... I stole those mushrooms," Frodo said, aghast. "What would my parents think of me now, I wonder."

Bilbo sat down again and regarded the youth compassionately. "Their hearts would break at what you've had to suffer, lad," he said in a quiet voice. "But they would be proud of the hobbit you've become, lapses in judgement and all. As I am," Bilbo added softly.

Frodo swallowed and looked away, unable to hold Bilbo's clear gaze a moment longer.

The old hobbit smiled. "And I believe that Drogo, at least, would strongly advise you not to let good mushrooms go to waste. What do you say to that snack, my boy?"

Frodo breathed in slowly, and felt the air was cleaner now. He got to his feet despite himself. Mad Baggins indeed. The tween looked at his wonderful, ridiculous uncle finally and nodded. He found he suddenly had a taste for mushrooms...