46. A Heated Confrontation

Merry did not cry out when Lotho slapped him, but Pippin screamed in rage and flew at Lotho, pounding the grown hobbit’s midsection with his tiny fists.

Lotho laughed and caught Pippin’s wrists easily. “Away from me, sprout,” he growled dangerously.

Frodo recovered from his shock and fairly flew across the nearly deserted marketplace. He didn’t notice Halfred right on his heels, for his vision was clouded with boiling rage. “Let go of him!” Frodo shouted furiously. He pulled Pippin protectively to himself.

Lotho grinned nastily, and Frodo wanted to punch his arrogant face into the next Farthing. “Ah, Frodo!” he sneered. “We were just talking about you.”

“He said the most vile things about you, Frodo, and our family,” Merry put in indignantly. He was glaring at Lotho, and there was a red handprint on his soft cheek.

Lotho made as if to lunge in Merry’s direction, and Frodo hurriedly stepped in between them, Pippin still clinging to his leg.

Frodo was glaring at Lotho too, but he wasn’t thinking of Lotho’s meaningless words. “How dare you strike Merry?” Frodo demanded in a low voice. “How dare you? What were you, raised by trolls?”

Lotho grinned even more, because he knew he had gotten to Frodo. All these years of trying to shatter the little rat’s maddening self-control, and all it took were threats to his loved ones. Lotho looked down at the little Took, who was staring back defiantly even as he clung to Frodo. Those two dirt-grubbing Gamgees were standing nearby, but they knew they couldn’t interfere in this matter between their betters. It amused Lotho to see young Samwise shaking his head, hands balled into fists, the knuckles white. Halfred was leaning down, speaking urgently into his ear, and after hesitating a moment longer, Samwise turned and ran off down the lane.

Lotho took another step forward, leaving Ted and Fatty in the shadow of the scraggly trees. He looked at the little Brandybuck snot and admired the red handprint marring the smooth young face. Fatty had looked almost shocked when Lotho hit Merry, and he knew he would get grief for that one. Not from Fatty, of course, but Lobelia would be beside herself to know that he had struck the grandson of the Master of Buckland. Queer the Bucklanders might be, but power was power, and important folks were not to be offended.

But the old nag would get over it. Lotho was going to have his fun, and that was all that mattered.

“Raised by trolls?” Lotho mocked. “All those books you read and that’s the best you’ve got?”

Frodo looked around uneasily. It was late in the afternoon, but the heat was still unbearable. The tween couldn’t think. He looked over at Fatty, who wouldn’t meet his gaze. Frodo looked away too; he didn’t like to look at his and Folco’s childhood friend and remember that Fatty preferred the company of Lotho now.

“Let’s go,” Frodo said thickly, reaching out to grasp Merry’s shoulder.

With Pippin, they turned to walk away. Lotho started after them, angry that these rats would dismiss him so casually. His fingers clenched into a fist when he felt a hand on his sleeve restraining him. Lotho turned back with a snarl to see Fatty’s deeply frowning face.

“Forget it,” Fatty said clearly.

Lotho paused in surprise before furiously jerking his sleeve out of Fatty’s grasp and shoving the younger hobbit away from him. “When did you grow a backbone?” Lotho growled. It was unlike Fatty to talk back, and Lotho found he didn’t care for it at all.

Fatty stumbled back a step but did not subside into his usual respectful silence. “They’re just little sprouts,” he added, “and Frodo’s never done you harm.”

This made Lotho see red. He was indifferent to the younger two, but Frodo was the cause of all his family’s problems and deserved whatever Lotho could dish out. He advanced on Fatty, the rotten turncoat.

“You take that back,” Lotho said dangerously. “You take that back or I’ll pound your ugly face in.”

Fatty looked frightened but didn’t back down. “No,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “I’m through toadying to you.” Fatty’s plump face was growing very red.

“You’ll regret that, Fredegar,” Lotho said quietly, stung and furious. “Such a shame. And your father so wanted us to be friends!” Lotho saw that Frodo had not used his opportunity to flee, and had heard the entire exchange with Fatty. The knowledge that his old nemesis had witnessed his humiliation caused Lotho’s rage to boil over. “You’ll regret crossing me, both of you!” Lotho’s shout echoed oddly off the deserted shops.

“Ted!” Lotho snapped. “Hold that one.”

Ted grinned and easily seized Fatty by the arms as Lotho made straight for Frodo.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Halfred stir from where he had been standing near Ted, but Lotho didn’t concern himself; Ted could handle him. Ted, like Fatty, had once been… reluctant to go along with Lotho’s wishes. That had been several years ago, but a few sweet words and sweeter coins had bought back his loyalty. Ted was weak, and Lotho wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I’ll just have to teach two rats a lesson today,” Lotho smirked at Fatty as he advanced on Frodo. To his surprise, Frodo didn’t move even now. In fact, the younger hobbit seemed to be swaying on his feet. Lotho noted with amusement that his cousin’s fair skin held an unnatural pink flush, but he didn’t care if Frodo had had too much sun. He always preferred his targets to stand still anyway.

Those unnatural blue eyes finally focused on Lotho as the older hobbit grinned at Frodo from inches away. They were almost the same height, but Frodo was much more slender. Lotho was going to enjoy this; his fists had been itching to pound something all day. Frodo’s eyes widened as he sensed Lotho’s malice, and he firmly unhooked Pippin’s arms from around his waist and pushed the child toward Merry.

Lotho grinned and grasped Frodo by the front of his shirt, twisting the material harshly. Frodo shoved Lotho in the chest and tried to step back, but Lotho held firm.

“You’re weak,” Lotho taunted in a low voice, for Frodo’s ears only. Much as he relished the moment, Lotho decided he should hurry things along. He could hear Halfred and Fatty struggling with Ted, and Merry looked ready to rush Lotho at any moment. Not that the pipsqueak could do him any harm, but he didn’t need the distraction. Lotho tightened his grip on Frodo’s shirt and clenched his other fist. “Weak and pathetic,” Lotho repeated. “I’m ashamed we’re related.” He would hit hard and fast, and hopefully mess up that pretty face he so despised.

Something hardened in Frodo’s eyes. “So am I,” he ground out.

Lotho realized belatedly that Frodo was not as weakened by the heat as he had seemed at first. His next thought was that perhaps he had made Frodo a little too angry by striking Merry. Then there was only white-hot pain as Frodo’s heel connected forcefully with Lotho’s knee.

Lotho howled in agony as his leg buckled beneath him. He couldn’t hold onto Frodo, but he managed to stay upright despite the searing pain radiating from his kneecap. Before Frodo could recover his balance, Lotho lashed out with his fists, intending to make the rat regret the day he was born.

None of his blows landed, however, as several things seemed to happen all at once. Halfred managed to hit Ted squarely on the jaw, for one thing, and Lotho’s thickset lackey fell on his rump, dazed. Halfred, Fatty, and Merry all rushed toward Lotho and Frodo at the same time, but Pippin had beaten them all there.

“Don’t you hurt my Cousin Frodo!” Pippin shouted from somewhere near Lotho’s feet. Small, eight-year-old hands wound themselves tightly around Lotho’s calf, and an incomplete set of sharp little teeth chomped down hard on Lotho’s ankle.

Pippin didn’t break the skin, although he was trying his hardest, but the abrupt pain was enough to distract Lotho from his attack on Frodo. Lotho stared at the ring of angry faces surrounding him. Ted was slowly getting up from the grass, rubbing his jaw gingerly. Frodo seemed to have expended his remaining energy in that one well-placed kick, and his eyes fluttered closed as the tween swayed unsteadily under the hot sun, his slightly parted lips cracked and dry.

Lotho almost went for him again, knowing it would only take one blow to lay out his younger cousin. But footsteps approaching around the corner made him hesitate. When he saw young Samwise striding angrily toward him, with his dirt-grubbing father and what looked like Saradoc Brandybuck close on his heels, Lotho knew a hasty retreat was in order. He spat on the ground, having no words to express his feelings, and limped away as fast as he could with his injured knee.

Everyone rushed to meet Hamfast Gamgee and Saradoc, except for Merry. The young Brandybuck was the first to realize something was very wrong with his cousin.

“Frodo!” Merry cried, bringing the others up short. He rushed to his cousin’s side and put an arm around Frodo’s waist, steadying him. “You’re ill!”

“I’m all right... Merry...”

Halfred came to his other side, followed soon after by Sam, who had run on ahead of his Gaffer and Saradoc. “I couldn’t find Mr. Bilbo,” the sandy-haired lad explained, peering anxiously up at Frodo.

“Don’t worry about it, Sam-lad, you did just fine,” Halfred said hastily. “Come along, Mr. Frodo, you’re fair burnin’ up. Let’s get ye back to your room and out o’ this heat.” He slipped an arm around Frodo’s shoulders and steered him toward the rapidly approaching adults.

“What happened here, lads?” Saradoc asked sharply. Ted had gotten himself upright at last, and with a last dirty look at Halfred, ran off after Lotho. Fatty stood where he was, and the others ignored him.

“Lotho hit Merry!” Pippin exclaimed, anxious to tell the story. “An’ Cousin Frodo was real mad.”

“I’m sorry,” Frodo murmured. “I should have stopped him. I should have gotten there in time for Merry. I couldn’t...”

“I’m all right, Father,” Merry supplied when Saradoc cupped his face, touching the slowly-fading red mark. “It was Frodo he wanted to meddle with, not me. But something’s wrong, he’s ill I think.”

Saradoc peered at Frodo with concern and felt his hot, dry skin. “Too much sun and not enough water, I should say. Let’s get you inside, boy.” Saradoc smiled kindly at Frodo to disguise his worry. The lad didn’t look well at all. This oppressive heat had taken its toll on a number of Fairgoers, and Frodo was clearly its latest casualty. He raised his eyes to see a young Bolger, Fatty, standing awkwardly nearby. “Fredegar, would you be so good as to find a healer?”

“O-of course,” Fatty stammered. The other lads looked at him without malice, but too uncertain of him yet to be friendly. Fatty fled toward the market square.

Saradoc cast another worried glance at Frodo and led the small procession toward the Warbling Turtle Inn, where most of them were lodged. Pippin was too young to tell the tale in any comprehensible way, but Saradoc was able to draw the sequence of events out of Halfred Gamgee, with a few promptings from the Gaffer. The latter had stationed himself directly behind Frodo and seemed to be expecting the boy to collapse at any moment, he was watching him so keenly.

Saradoc was touched by the stern old gardener’s loyalty, and this reminded him of young Samwise’s urgency when he’d come upon Saradoc in the tearoom with Esmeralda. “That Lotho is makin’ trouble for your son, sir, and Mr. Frodo,” Sam had said, and his worried face had told Saradoc that adult interference would likely be necessary. Of course, Lotho himself was not even a tween any longer; he was clearly out of control.

“That Lotho is on a bad road,” Saradoc said darkly, squeezing Merry’s shoulder protectively. “He must be checked, and his parents are clearly not up to the task.” He was furious that Lotho had struck his son, and even more furious that he had used Merry to get a reaction out of Frodo, for Saradoc knew the history there and could piece the puzzle together easily enough.

“Aye,” Hamfast agreed grimly, keeping his eyes on Frodo’s erratic gait as he stumbled along, supported by Halfred and Sam. “That one’ll come to a bad end, you mark my words.”

Frodo tried not to squint as he stumbled along. He was grateful for Halfred’s strong arm about his shoulders, and Sam’s about his waist, for all he wanted to do was lay down on the parched earth and rest. His mind wasn’t so addled by the heat that he didn’t know that was a very bad idea, however. He had been out in the hot sun all day, and all day yesterday, and he had had scarcely anything to drink, much to his chagrin. They had all been warned repeatedly about the illnesses brought about by heat and thirst, and Frodo had been so caught up in the fun and excitement of the Fair, he hadn’t taken heed.

He supposed it wasn’t too serious, since he was still standing, but Frodo felt awful. His head seemed to pound rapidly in time with his pulse, and he was dreadfully dizzy.

“Almost there, Mr. Frodo,” the Gaffer’s gruff voice said behind him.

Frodo heard Saradoc say that Bilbo was probably back at the Warbling Turtle by now, and realized they were indeed almost there. The inn’s sign was glinting with painful brightness just ahead.

With a few more angry mutterings about Lotho’s disgraceful behaviour, Saradoc opened the door to the inn. Frodo felt another twinge of conscience, wishing he had gotten to Lotho before he struck Merry, or better yet, that he had not left the younger lads outside by themselves at all. He wouldn’t blame Saradoc for being angry; he had shown himself to be a rather pitiful guardian for Saradoc’s son.

The tween sighed in relief as he entered the cool main room of the Warbling Turtle. The darkness was such a sharp contrast with the late afternoon sun outside that at first Frodo couldn’t see anything, and the dizziness increased such that he had to clutch at Halfred’s broad shoulder.

“Frodo-lad!” One of the dark shapes at the bar detached itself and came forward. “Saradoc? What—”

Frodo recognized Bilbo’s voice. He left Halfred’s supporting hands and stepped towards his uncle a little too quickly. The room pitched and tilted crazily, and Frodo’s vision began to tunnel. He had a brief glimpse of dusty floorboards rushing up to meet him, but instead of the anticipated impact with the hard surface, he slumped into a broad, soft, linen-covered chest, and arms that closed around him tightly.  Bilbo.