34. A Wizard’s Reassurance

The small party travelled only another two hours before halting again, for it was nearly suppertime. Gandalf knew better than to delay a meal when he had two hobbits in his wagon, and one of them a growing tweenager.

The old wizard glanced at Frodo from beneath shaggy eyebrows. Gandalf felt sure Frodo was still upset over the disastrous encounter with the ruffians; the child had been unusually quiet since returning to Bilbo.

Gandalf went forward to tend to Hwesta and smiled as he saw Frodo climb down from the wagon to assist his uncle with dinner preparations. The wizard knew that the best way to soothe frayed hobbit nerves was with an early supper.

Soon the fragrant aroma of cabbage stew wafted through the deepening dusk, and Gandalf settled himself on a log beside Frodo.  Bilbo soon became absorbed in cooking; he was bustling between the cooking fire and their supplies in the wagon, adding this or that to the stew and muttering to himself.

Gandalf looked down at the dark haired lad beside him and sighed. Frodo was chewing his lip and gazing uneasily into the dark forest all around them.

“You are quite safe, you know,” the wizard murmured.

Frodo turned to face him, startled, and coloured slightly when he realized he’d attracted Gandalf’s attention. Gandalf found himself gazing into a pair of wide, troubled blue eyes.

“Your Uncle Bilbo and I would never willingly allow harm to come to you, Frodo,” Gandalf continued when Frodo did not speak.

“I know,” Frodo finally mumbled, dropping his eyes, but he did not sound reassured.

Gandalf hesitated, then put a hand gently on the small back. It had been many years since he had known any children. The wizard felt responsible for bringing Frodo into a dangerous situation, however unknowingly, and the knowledge galled him.

Frodo did not tense or pull away from the touch; he merely sighed and relaxed slightly.

“Stew’s ready,” Bilbo said then, and quickly filled three wooden bowls. He handed one to Gandalf and another to Frodo. “Eat up, dear boy,” the old hobbit said. “You’ll feel better after a nice warm supper.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Frodo replied, and attempted to smile reassuringly at Bilbo.

Bilbo returned the smile, but it didn’t touch the concern in his eyes.

The three of them ate in companionable silence. Gandalf was mildly amused when he realized that Bilbo was not only keeping an eye on how much Frodo ate; the old hobbit kept darting disapproving glances at Gandalf’s bowl as well.

When supper was over, Frodo got up to fetch the pail of wash water Gandalf had collected earlier in the day, and Bilbo’s washbasin.

“I don’t know how you’ve survived so long without wasting away, Gandalf,” Bilbo tutted. “Even Frodo ate more than you did!”

Gandalf chuckled. “I’ve been equally amazed with you, old friend. I cannot fathom where you manage to put it all.”

The friendly banter seemed to help put Frodo at ease, but once the supper dishes were washed, Gandalf noticed Frodo looking surreptitiously into the woods again, and Bilbo glancing worriedly at his young heir.

Gandalf frowned thoughtfully. Vague allusions to power and tactical abstractions were of little comfort to a boy, even one as intelligent as Frodo. No, something more concrete was needed...

Once they were settled around the campfire, and Bilbo and Gandalf had their pipes in hand, Gandalf turned and fixed his gaze on Frodo. “Has Bilbo taught you anything of the Goblin wars, Frodo?”

“Yes, sir,” Frodo replied. The tween looked curiously at Gandalf, bewildered by this unexpected mention of long-ago conflicts.

“Good, good,” the wizard rumbled, ignoring Bilbo’s raised eyebrows and slight smile. “Then you might like to see something of mine—a relic, from those times.”

Frodo’s sapphire eyes lit up with interest. “Truly? What sort of a relic is it?”

“I shall give you a hint,” Gandalf said with a smile. He puffed slowly on his pipe and blew a very peculiarly shaped object of smoke. It was long and thin, and somewhat pointy.

Frodo watched it float past him, wide-eyed. “A... a broom?” he guessed doubtfully.

Bilbo guffawed and Gandalf threw him a dirty look.

“Ah, no. This is something actually used in the wars,” the wizard said to Frodo, trying not to chuckle. “And not for cleaning,” he added wryly.

Frodo frowned and looked again at the smoke-shape, which was now nearly out of sight. “It’s a sword!” the boy murmured finally, comprehension dawning.

“Yes indeed,” Gandalf replied. “It is called ‘Glamdring,’ which means ‘Foe-Hammer.’ Would you like to see it, Frodo?”

Frodo nodded eagerly and sat up straighter. “Oh, yes, please!” the blue-eyed lad exclaimed.

Gandalf chuckled and got to his feet. He pulled back one side of his enormous cloak and reached underneath with his other hand. Frodo watched raptly as the old wizard slowly drew Glamdring from its scabbard and held it level in front of him for Frodo to inspect.

“Elbereth!” Frodo breathed, his eyes widening in amazement as he stared at the sword.

Gandalf smiled at the expression of awe on the young hobbit’s face. Bilbo smiled too, and gestured to Frodo that he should take a closer look.

“What are these markings on the blade, Gandalf?” Frodo asked, leaning forward to inspect the blade.

“Those are runes, my boy,” Gandalf replied. “They give the name of the sword, among other things. The entire blade glows white, when enemies are near.”

Frodo would not have dreamed of asking to touch the beautiful weapon, but his eyes swept along the length of the blade, taking in every detail. It looked as long as Frodo was tall. The colour of the metal was white, but the only glowing in evidence was the flickering campfire reflected along the blade’s surface. Frodo asked his next question in a hushed voice. “How—how old is Glamdring?”

“It was forged in the First Age,” Gandalf said, smiling at Frodo’s barely restrained curiosity. “It was first wielded by Turgon, the Elf king of Gondolin.”

Frodo looked wonderingly first at Bilbo, then at Gandalf. “How came you to possess such a thing?”

The old wizard chuckled. “Why don’t you ask your Uncle Bilbo? He was there.”

Bilbo began to laugh himself, seeing the shocked expression on Frodo’s face.

“What happened, Bilbo?” the tweenager asked eagerly, when he had overcome his surprise.

“Well, it was on our journey with the Dwarves, the ‘Quest of Erebor,’ as I’m certain you have already guessed,” Bilbo began. When Frodo nodded, the old hobbit continued, “after we escaped from the three Trolls, we found their hoard in a cave nearby. Glamdring, along with many other fine weapons, was discovered there.”

Frodo sat digesting the story for a moment. “Is that where you found your sword, Uncle? The one in your stories, which you used to rescue Thorin’s companions from the Giant Spiders of Mirkwood?” he asked suddenly.

Bilbo looked at Frodo in surprise, then chuckled. “This boy is a Baggins, all right,” he murmured to Gandalf. “Very astute. Yes, it did indeed come from the Troll-hoard.” Bilbo hesitated, then continued, “I shall have to show it to you one day, Frodo-lad. I never carry it with me now, of course, unless I’m planning to travel alone outside the Shire.”

Frodo did not ask why Bilbo had not shown it to him already. He knew most of what had happened on Bilbo’s adventure, but Bilbo had never offered to show him more than a few of the treasures he had picked up, and Frodo had never asked for more. Despite living with Bilbo for nearly four years now, Frodo still retained some of the vaguely uncomfortable manners he had been taught to show when staying with hobbits who were not his own parents, and he could never bring himself to beg Bilbo for any indulgences, the way most children did with their parents.

He did not fear Bilbo’s reaction, exactly, for Bilbo had been nothing but kindness itself in all the years Frodo had known him. He had certainly outgrown his childish fear that Bilbo would send him back to Buckland if he misbehaved, but there was still that niggling feeling that he mustn’t presume too much on Bilbo’s generosity.

Thus, Frodo had never asked to see the sword, nor that strange old magic ring that Bilbo was so fond of. He knew Bilbo kept the ring in his pocket most all the time, and Bilbo had once shown him what it could do, but beyond that it was never mentioned, and Frodo could do naught but respect his uncle’s wishes.

When they went to bed that night, Frodo was no longer glancing uneasily into the forest, much to Bilbo’s and Gandalf’s relief. The tweenager felt quite safe and sleepy in his bedroll, and he enjoyed the little thrill of awe he got whenever he looked over at Gandalf, sitting quietly on a log while Bilbo prepared for bed; the old wizard undoubtedly possessed powers that Frodo could not even imagine, and was more than capable of defending their party against any number of mere ruffians.

Some time later, Frodo opened his eyes. He was warm and quite comfortable, and it took him a moment to realize what had woken him.

“It does not bode well, Bilbo,” a voice murmured softly.

“How could they get so close?” whispered Frodo’s uncle. “Are these undesirables getting more desperate? What is to be done?”

Frodo opened his eyes, being careful to move no other part of his body. The quiet conversation between Bilbo and Gandalf sounded entirely too interesting for him to go back to sleep.

“The rest of the world is changing, Bilbo,” Gandalf sighed. “The rangers have much to occupy them in this area. I hadn’t thought it would be this bad, or I should never have asked you to come along, certainly not with a child. But you ought to be quite safe without me once we reach Oatbarton road, and all the way to Buckland.”

Now it was Bilbo’s turn to sigh. “Well, Frodo seems to be having a grand time, regardless. And I for one am glad of it. The boy doesn’t have enough fun, in my opinion. He spends too much time studying and reading, odd as it is for me to be the one saying so. But sometimes I have to recruit our neighbours to drag him out of doors! He is still such a pale little thing, I cannot believe he gets adequate sun and fresh air.”

Frodo made a face. He loved Bilbo dearly, but he couldn’t help it that he didn’t always feel like running and playing boisterously outside with the other children of Hobbiton.

“Well, he is getting his adventure, certainly,” Gandalf said wryly. “He does appear unusually serious for his years. Losing one’s parents at such a young age can have that effect, of course.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed thoughtfully. “But he seems more at ease now, after three and a half years of influence from Mad Baggins.” The old hobbit chuckled ruefully.

Gandalf laughed softly. “He’s happy with you, Bilbo. Any fool can see that.”

“Ahem, yes, well...” Bilbo trailed off, clearly pleased.

Frodo smiled widely in the darkness.

“Has he been back to Buckland since he came to live with you?” Gandalf asked at length.

“No,” Bilbo said slowly. “His favourite cousins have been to visit him at Bag End several times, but Frodo has never asked to visit Brandy Hall, and I haven’t pressed the issue.”

“Hmm,” Gandalf grunted noncommittally.

Frodo began to smell pipeweed, and he could tell by the pattern of Gandalf’s breathing that he was smoking his pipe now. Frodo blinked sleepily, his eyes suddenly feeling a lot heavier than they had a moment ago.

“I hope this visit goes well,” Bilbo added thoughtfully. “I do believe he’s more excited about the journey than the destination. I know the lad will be happy to see young Meriadoc, but he must have mixed feelings about the place. His parents drowned near there, you know, and he was virtually neglected by his Brandybuck relations for eleven years after the accident. To this day he doesn’t seem quite comfortable speaking of his parents, and I rarely hear him speak of his time in Brandy Hall.”

“Everyone must confront his demons at some point,” Gandalf replied quietly. “But Frodo is young to understand such matters. There will be plenty of time for that later, I daresay.”

Frodo was barely listening by this point. The soft murmur of voices had blended together into a soothing background noise, and the tweenager soon dropped back to sleep.

March 12, 1395

Frodo awoke the next morning with the feeling that he had heard something important the night before, but try as he might, he could recall no details. They were travelling northeast now, and Gandalf said they would cross the Oatbarton road tomorrow. Frodo was filled with sadness at the prospect of parting company with Gandalf. Bilbo and Gandalf spoke cheerfully, but Frodo was sensible enough to realize it would likely be years before Gandalf happened by this way again.

They stopped for supper late in the afternoon; the water containers were nearly empty and Bilbo wanted them filled before darkness made it difficult to locate a stream. After Hwesta had been seen to, Gandalf set off to find fresh water. Frodo went along to carry the smaller of their four water jugs while Bilbo remained with the wagon to begin setting up camp.

Frodo’s sensitive ears detected the babbling of a brook only a minute away from their campsite, and he soon had the two small containers filled.

“Why don’t you take those back to Bilbo, my boy,” Gandalf said, smiling at Frodo. “I’ve no doubt you’re both eager to start supper. I shall fill the others and look around a few minutes.”

Frodo nodded agreeably and set off back to the campsite, carrying one water skin in each hand. He set them down carefully next to the pots Bilbo had taken from the wagon. A small pile of wood was laid ready for a fire, but Bilbo was nowhere to be seen.

“Bilbo?” Frodo said, glancing around curiously. Hwesta turned her head and whinnied at him, and Frodo went to stroke the part of her nose that wasn’t buried in her feed bag. He had been rather frightened of the beautiful animal after their first meeting, but he had gradually grown accustomed to her presence. She really could be quite calm when small hobbit boys weren’t dropping unexpectedly into her wagon from above.

Frodo gave Hwesta a last pat and turned around to survey the small clearing that had been chosen as tonight’s campsite. Where could Bilbo have gone?

Hwesta turned her head to regard him with her large, horsey eyes, and whinnied softly. Frodo smiled and was reaching out to pat her again when he heard a faint noise coming from the wagon. The blue-eyed tween pulled himself up onto the wagon’s front axle and peered in.

Bilbo was stretched out on the front bench, taking a nap. Frodo smirked and hopped back down to the ground just as Bilbo emitted another faint snore.

He quickly spied a long, straight stick a few feet away and knew just how to amuse himself while he waited for Gandalf to return. Ever since Gandalf had shown him Glamdring, Frodo had been itching to find a suitable prop and play at sword fighting.

Frodo quickly snatched up the stick and ran a short distance into the woods so as not to disturb Bilbo. He supposed it was a little odd that he still liked to play make-believe sometimes, at his age, but as long as no one saw him he didn’t mind. Besides, when he got to Brandy Hall he could show Merry, and Samwise when he returned to Bag End. Sam still loved to play ‘Ranger’, and Frodo figured such people probably used swords. Shire hobbits knew little about rangers, save what they heard from the occasional traveller from Bree. They were generally reckoned to be wild, unkempt Men from the North, roaming freely on some nefarious business or other. As such, they were highly interesting to the more imaginative hobbit lads.

“I am Frodomir the Fierce,” Frodo said sternly to the hapless birch tree before him. “You seek to defeat me?” He held his mighty stick aloft. “Behold! I have... ah... Brethildring! Birch-hammer!”

Frodo smiled at his own cleverness. He remembered that ‘Brethil’ was the Elvish name for a birch tree, and he had used Glamdring’s suffix for ‘hammer’. He would ask Bilbo later whether that was correct, if he could think of a way to avoid mentioning how the question had come up...

“Take that, you rogue!” Frodo cried, giving the tree trunk a sharp thwap with Brethildring. He proceeded to attack his foe mercilessly, administering blows with his sword in as coordinated a fashion as his untrained arm could manage.

“Keep your elbow tucked in,” advised an unfamiliar voice suddenly.

Frodo yelped in fright and whirled around. There was a full-grown Man standing not ten feet away from him! Frodo did not hesitate long enough to take a good look, or even to wonder what the Big Person meant; he turned and ran in the opposite direction, reproaching himself bitterly for being so inattentive to his surroundings as to allow a noisy, lumbering Man to sneak up on him. What if it was Strasser or Chattin, come back to plunder the Shire for real this time?

Realizing that he was not being pursued, Frodo finally stopped and hid himself in a clump of bushes, panting from the unexpected exertion. His direction had taken him away from Bilbo, and he did not want to go so far as to get lost again.

The cracking of a twig alerted Frodo that the Man had followed him, albeit more slowly. Frodo held his breath and crouched down among the bushes until he was sure he was hidden, and watched apprehensively as the Man came into view. He was frightened, but not nearly as much as yesterday. Now at least he knew where he was, and both Bilbo and Gandalf were within earshot; he could easily call for help if this Big Person discovered him.

The Man looked about, frowning in consternation, and then focused his gaze on the ground. Frodo studied the fellow apprehensively; now that he had time to look, he could see that this was not Strasser nor Chattin. One of their friends, perhaps? He was certainly as dirty and scruffy as those two ruffians, but he appeared much younger. His shoulder-length hair was black and straight, and he wore a long leather overcoat.

Frodo suddenly realized the Big Person was still carefully scrutinizing the ground. The hard-packed earth could not possibly hold his footprints, as far as Frodo knew, but somehow the Man’s gaze travelled along the ground and landed directly on Frodo’s hiding place. The tweenager bit his lip, trying not to move.

But much to Frodo’s surprise, the Man did not come any closer. He stood and gazed steadily at the bushes concealing Frodo, and then, even more surprisingly, he spoke.

“I apologize for startling you,” the Man said, and his voice was unexpectedly gentle. “Won’t you come out?”

“Wh-what is your business with me, sir?” Frodo finally asked. He couldn’t help his voice trembling a little, but he no longer thought the Man would harm him; he had not the coarse manner of a ruffian, and he clearly knew where Frodo was hiding but had made no threatening move.

“I have been tracking Gandalf the Grey all afternoon,” the Man answered. “He is acquainted with me, and I am bid to speak with him. I know he has been travelling with two Halflings, so when I saw you I thought you might be one of his companions. Please don’t be frightened; I will not harm you.”

Frodo stared at the Big Person and slowly rose to his feet. This was clearly no ruffian, and with a burst of curiosity, Frodo suddenly wondered if he might in fact be one of the mysterious protectors of the Shire whom Gandalf had mentioned.

The Man’s face lit up with relief when he saw the small hobbit, and he bowed low. “Faramond Rushlight, at your service,” he said amiably.

“Frodo Baggins, at yours and your family’s,” Frodo returned correctly, smiling as he bowed in turn. The Man’s disarming friendliness and honesty had quenched his fear. He stepped out of the bushes and walked over to the Big Person, who had been careful to come no closer during the exchange. “Shall I bring you to Gandalf then, Mr. Rushlight?”

“Thank you, yes,” the Man replied, smiling kindly at Frodo. “But please call me Faramond, if you will.”

Faramond was created by one of my all-time favourite LOTR authors, Tathar, in her fic “Always a Silver Lining.” Tathar very generously agreed to lend me Faramond for this (and the next) chapter, and Faramond’s exchange of greetings with Frodo is taken almost untouched from ASL.