35. Faramond Rushlight

“Our camp is just ahead, Faramond,” Frodo said shyly.

Faramond had been seeking Gandalf for days, and he was relieved that he would be able to complete his mission at last. The man smiled at Frodo and nodded his thanks. He had realized quickly that this young Halfling was not accustomed to encountering men, and he had no wish to frighten the boy.

He followed along behind Frodo, marvelling at how lightly and soundlessly those unshod feet trod on the forest floor. Faramond had been training for years to track with stealth, but his abilities were no match for Frodo’s. Faramond doubted that even his mentor would be able to detect a Halfling that did not wish to be heard. He had seen Halflings before, of course, but he had never had much opportunity to interact with them or observe them closely.

“Nearly there,” Frodo said, glancing back over his shoulder with enormous blue eyes.

Faramond smiled again. Judging by the number of wide-eyed glances he’d received, Frodo was as curious about him as he was about Frodo. The boy looked as if he were barely restraining himself from asking a thousand questions.

“Frodo-lad,” came a voice from just ahead. “Good, there you are! Supper is about ready, so if you’ll just...”

The speaker trailed off as Faramond stepped into the clearing behind Frodo.

The man halted a good distance away from the older Halfling he had startled. “Faramond Rushlight, a friend of Gandalf’s, at your service,” he said with a bow.

“Bilbo Baggins at yours,” the old Halfling said after a moment of staring, recovering his equanimity with impressive quickness. “Gandalf should be back in a minute. You’re welcome to join us for supper,” he added with a suddenly welcoming smile.

“Thank you,” Faramond replied in surprise. Bilbo’s gaze was curious but unafraid, and Faramond deduced that this Halfling had guessed he was a ranger, merely from his appearance and acquaintance with Gandalf.

“Gandalf is back already,” rumbled a voice from behind him, and Faramond turned to find the wizard approaching with buckets of water in both his hands.

Faramond smiled and bowed. “Gandalf. It has been a long time.”

Frodo looked even more interested now, if that were possible, but he hurried to take the water from Gandalf. The two Halflings began to prepare supper, leaving Faramond and Gandalf in relative privacy.

“Sit down, young man, and tell me how you’ve been,” Gandalf said, settling himself on a log.

“I’ve been well,” Faramond replied, obediently sitting on a mossy rock near the wizard. “My training is nearly complete, in fact.”

“Good, good,” Gandalf said with a fatherly smile. “I always knew you’d do well.” The wizard chuckled and pulled out his pipe.

Faramond marvelled at how Gandalf could remember an insignificant boy from an insignificant town in the North, let alone be fond of him. “I come with word for you from my mentor,” Faramond said finally, figuring he should get down to business. He knew how fortunate he was to have been singled out by the Chieftain of the Dúnedain for training, and he was determined to live up to the responsibilities given to him.

“I thought you might,” Gandalf replied. “And what does old Strider have to say, hmm?”

“We’ve been hearing rumours that two men wanted in Bree have escaped their pursuers and are headed in this direction,” Faramond began. “Aragorn said you were travelling through here and he sent me ahead to find you. I’m to ask if you’ve seen any sign of these men.”

Gandalf nodded as though he had been expecting the question, and proceeded to relate an amazing tale to Faramond.

The young man turned to watch Frodo cheerfully adding items to an enormous cooking pot under his uncle’s direction. “He was lucky,” Faramond said with a frown. Strasser and Chattin were well known to him, and he shuddered at the thought of Frodo being in their power. He was already becoming fond of the little Halfling.

“Yes,” Gandalf agreed soberly. “They were searching for the Shire. I directed them up north, so we shan’t see them anytime soon.”

Faramond unconsciously fingered the hilt of his sword. He was eager to put his training to good use.

“Perhaps you’d better stay with us tonight, and give Aragorn a chance to catch up with you,” Gandalf suggested, as though reading Faramond’s thoughts.

Faramond agreed reluctantly. A ranger knew when to exercise prudence.

Hobbits, wizard, and man ate their supper with good appetite. No one would tell Frodo who Faramond was or why he was here, but neither did anyone contradict the tweenager when he guessed Faramond to be one of Gandalf’s mysterious protectors of the Shire.

Gandalf and Bilbo were talking quietly together, leaving Frodo free to question the intriguing new arrival.

“Faramond,” Frodo said, “what did you mean back there by the tree, about keeping my elbow up?”

Faramond smiled and put down his tin cup. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Frodo,” the man apologized again. “I thought you were practicing your sword fighting technique, and I noticed your arm was wrongly positioned.”

“I was only playing,” Frodo admitted sheepishly. “Hobbits don’t have swords, or any other weapon, generally. But you know how to use a sword?”

“Of course,” Faramond replied. He pulled back the edge of his cloak so Frodo could see the hilt of his sword, smiling as the Halfling’s eyes grew to the size of saucers.

“Does it have a name?” Frodo asked eagerly.

“Belegmír,” Faramond replied.

“Well, I dropped mine back by the tree,” Frodo said, “but its name was Brethildring.”

Faramond looked at him oddly for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “Birch-hammer! Very clever, Frodo.”

Frodo grinned. Somehow he wasn’t embarrassed to have this man know about his make-believe games. “Will you teach me a little?” the tween asked hopefully.

Faramond regarded him with serious grey eyes. “I—I don’t know if that would be wise, Frodo,” he said finally. “You’re only a child.”

Frodo tried not to show his disappointment, but before he could think of a new topic of conversation, he heard a dry chuckle from his uncle.

“How old are you, Faramond?” Bilbo asked.

“Twenty-six summers,” Faramond replied.

“So is Frodo,” Bilbo said. “Go ahead and teach him something, if you like. I daresay we’ll never get him to sleep tonight otherwise.”

Frodo looked hopefully at Faramond. “Please?”

The man had no hope of resisting those beseeching azure eyes, and he nodded slowly. “Very well. But I cannot see how you might be the same age as me!”

Frodo jumped up with delight. “Hobbits age differently than Men,” he explained with a shrug before running off to find suitable sword-sticks.

Aragorn arrived late that night when the fire had burned down to embers. Faramond was keeping watch, although Gandalf was awake as well. The young man was sitting with his back to the fire, alert and watchful, when he heard sounds that signalled a stealthy approach.

“Hullo, Aragorn,” Faramond said before his mentor came into view. The two Halflings were asleep, but he spoke softly.

“You recognized my tread,” the Chieftain of the Dúnedain said approvingly, stepping into the faint circle of firelight. “Greetings, my friend,” he added when his gaze fell on Gandalf.

Gandalf inclined his head in reply, and allowed Faramond to bring Aragorn up to date.

“Faramond and I will leave tonight,” Aragorn decided, once he had heard everything. “If all goes well, we can apprehend the ruffians and turn them over to the authorities in Annuminas before you meet us there.”

Gandalf nodded in agreement. “They won’t have gotten far. Frodo kicked one in the knee and may have done serious damage. He was limping noticeably when last I saw him.”

Faramond stifled a grin at this; he was hardly surprised. On the surface, the lad appeared to be a fragile little thing, but an hour and a half of training Frodo in sword-fighting moves, followed by a fierce mock battle with sticks, had taught Faramond that the young Halfling possessed indomitable resilience and great heart. When Frodo’s stick had gone flying into the brush after a particularly frustrating effort, Faramond had assumed Frodo would not wish to continue. But Frodo went diving after the stick and rooted around until he found it, at considerable cost in scratches to his arms and legs, and asked Faramond to demonstrate the move again and again until he could do it correctly.

“Frodo?” Aragorn muttered, frowning. “I know that name...”

Faramond and Gandalf looked at Aragorn in surprise, but the Chieftain of the Dúnedain was already moving silently to the other side of the camp-fire. He bent down to peer at Frodo’s sleeping face. Then he smiled suddenly and rejoined his companions.

“As I thought,” Aragorn said. “I found that boy lost in the woods some seven years ago. Near Buckland, I believe.”

Gandalf’s bushy brows lifted. “You remember a chance encounter after so long?”

Aragorn grinned again, much to Faramond’s amazement. It was a rare event for his mentor to smile without irony. “Frodo is a memorable lad. You must keep an eye on this little one, Gandalf.”

“That I certainly shall,” Gandalf replied with a smile of his own.

Faramond couldn’t help imagining how disappointed Frodo would be to awaken in the morning and find him gone. From the way Aragorn spoke, he assumed that Frodo would not recognize Aragorn if he saw him again, but Faramond knew he would have found this late-night conference dreadfully exciting.

“Are you ready?” Aragorn asked him softly. Faramond nodded and bowed quickly to Gandalf. While Aragorn in turn had a few final words with the wizard, Faramond moved to bid Frodo a silent farewell. He watched the peaceful face for a moment and struggled again to understand how such innocence could have survived an encounter with the likes of Strasser and Chattin.

“It is time we were away,” Aragorn said, coming to stand beside his student.

“How did they get so close, Aragorn?” Faramond asked desperately, crouching down to look at the bright, pure spirit he had become fond of in a few short hours. “How did we miss them?”

“We do the best we can,” Aragorn said quietly, also looking at Frodo.

Faramond glanced quickly up at his mentor. “Those two are murderers,” he whispered, his voice pained. “This child might have been killed. Am I weak for being affected so?” Faramond returned his gaze to the sleeping Halfling boy without waiting for a reply. He had endeavoured earlier to wear Frodo out with swordplay, and he had clearly succeeded, because the lad did not stir. It was the least he could do, for a child who had been put in danger because the rangers had failed to fulfil their duties.

“If it is a weakness, then I share it, Faramond,” Aragorn said with a faint smile. “It is well that you have seen what you are working to protect,” he added, not unkindly. “The memory will serve you well in the years ahead. Come.”

Faramond hesitated, then reached out and smoothed the dark, silky curls away from Frodo’s forehead in a mute caress. The young man’s palm was rough and callused, but Frodo only smiled slightly in his sleep. Faramond straightened and followed Aragorn away from the camp, and soon they were swallowed up by the dark forest.

Gandalf filled his pipe again and settled down to keep the watch.

March 13, 1395

When Frodo awoke the next morning, the only one up was Bilbo. He could see Gandalf resting against the log, but Faramond was nowhere in sight. He had known that Faramond would likely leave during the night; they had said their goodbyes after supper. Frodo sighed and sat up, trying not to dwell on the termination of a promising acquaintance.

Bilbo looked up and smiled when he heard his nephew stir. “Sleep well, Frodo-lad?” the old hobbit asked.

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo said after a moment. “And you?”

“Very well. Sleeping on the ground is hard on these old bones, but the fresh air can’t be beat,” Bilbo said cheerfully, handing Frodo a plate of dried meat and bread for breakfast.

Frodo ate ravenously, ignoring the tastelessness of the food. He would never admit to Bilbo that he was wearying of travel rations, but the thought of finally getting on to Buckland, with all the associated pantries, was making his mouth water.

Gandalf and Bilbo ate as well, and Frodo noticed that no one seemed to be in any particular hurry this morning. Gandalf finally loaded the last few things into his wagon and stood looking pensively at Bilbo and Frodo.

“Are you ready, dear hobbits?” he asked finally, smiling a little. “It isn’t much farther now.”

Frodo’s stomach seemed to drop down to his feet. In all the excitement of yesterday, he had forgotten that they would reach the Oatbarton road today, and he and Bilbo would have to say goodbye to Gandalf.

Bilbo saw his nephew’s face tighten with the realization. The old hobbit sighed and put an arm around Frodo’s shoulders. “Come along, dear boy,” he said briskly, and helped Frodo clamber into the wagon.

Both hobbits sat on the wagon’s front bench today, beside Gandalf. The weather was fine and the forest quiet as Hwesta walked along the faint path. Frodo looked at Gandalf and tried not to feel his heart aching. He had known the wizard less than a fortnight and yet somehow he felt he’d known him all his life. The tweenager was rather startled to realize how much he would miss Gandalf.

Frodo glanced sideways at his uncle’s peaceful face. Bilbo had known Gandalf much longer, of course, and had far more reason to be sad.

They crossed the Oatbarton road a few hours after noon, and Bilbo and Frodo climbed down. Gandalf got down as well and handed the two hobbits their packs.

“Take care of yourself, old friend,” Bilbo said to Gandalf with a fond smile and a hug.

“And you, Bilbo,” Gandalf rumbled, returning the hug.

Frodo hung back, suddenly shy, when the wizard turned clear grey eyes his way.

“Keep your rascal of an uncle out of trouble, Frodo,” Gandalf said with a wink, and moved to climb back into his wagon.

After a moment, Frodo ran forward and hugged Gandalf impulsively.

The old wizard chuckled and patted his back. “I’ll see you again, Frodo Baggins,” he muttered into the tween’s ear. “Of that you may be sure.”

They watched Gandalf and Hwesta drive off, and then Bilbo gave Frodo’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Are you having a good adventure, Frodo-lad?”

Frodo looked around at the peaceful forest as they began walking southeast along the road, and felt content. He could understand why Bilbo was so fond of travelling. “I am indeed, Uncle.”

Bilbo began to sing one of his favourite walking songs, and Frodo hummed along, enjoying the companionable mood with his favourite relative.

Frodo had been dwelling on the journey too much to spare much consideration for the destination, but now he found his thoughts turning to his cousin Merry, waiting for them to arrive in Buckland. He would be turning thirteen on April 4th, and Frodo hadn’t seen him in over a year. What was Merry doing now? Were his favourite foods still the same? Had he learnt to read yet?

It was odd to think that he and Bilbo would be in Buckland in less than a week; Frodo wasn’t certain how he felt about this prospect. He rarely thought of his time at Brandy Hall anymore, and he never thought about his parents’ deaths if he could help it. He remembered having nightmares for months after the long-ago accident, and his mind shied away from dredging up memories of those dark times.

Bilbo sometimes spoke of happier times with Drogo and Primula, when Frodo was very young or before he was born. Frodo liked hearing about his parents on those occasions, but he never allowed himself to think too deeply about them, frightened that he might feel again the terrible ache of longing and sadness that had gripped him often in Brandy Hall.

Those days seemed very distant, after living with Bilbo for the last three years, and Frodo had to admit to himself, he was a little uneasy about going back. But Merry would be there, and little Pippin would be there too, for Merry’s birthday party. There was much to look forward to.