“That’s true, Frodo,” Bilbo exclaimed, ruffling the curls of his young cousin who was comfortably seated on a cushion, one of several which were scattered about in front of the fire. They were in Bag End, thought Frodo, without knowing how. But he kept quiet, just letting Bilbo tell him exactly why the elder hobbit decided to deny his own words before. Yet it seemed that he only repeated what he had written in his second letter.

“What else can I say?” Frodo’s cousin added, sighing deeply. “I have another journey to take. An elf that happens to be my best friend is leaving the Middle Earth, ready to sail to Valinor. A best friend, Frodo. Can you imagine?” Bilbo took Frodo’s jaw and tilted the boy’s face upward. Frodo’s gaze was sad as he looked back at Bilbo.

“Then take me with you, uncle. You know how I wish to travel with you. And I – I’d rather be with you than with the Brandybucks.” Frodo could not help sighing, and bowed his head against Bilbo’s gentle grasp at his chin. Bilbo looked down and his heart melted at the sight of the lean, raggedly clothed lad. That was exactly why he wanted to bring Frodo to stay with him at Bag End, so that he could dress him properly and feed him more regularly. Bilbo knew Brandy Hall never lacked food but it lacked people who should pay more attention to children that did not belong to them, children like Frodo. Frodo, like many children could recklessly forget to eat, especially since food occupied his thoughts somewhat less than it did those of other young hobbits.

Unfortunately, it was impossible for Bilbo to bring the boy to Bag End. No, not right now. And Bilbo could not take him on his journey, either. The road would be long and the time was short. Bilbo did not want to have to rush an easily exhausted lad with him. Frodo heaved a disappointed breath when Bilbo pointed out his objections.

“I’m not sure if you want to live with the Sackville-Bagginses here at Bag End, though. They will stay here to take care of the smial during my leave.”

Frodo widened his eyes in disbelief. Live with the Sackville-Bagginses? Live with LOTHO? Was Bilbo jesting? Frodo would rather be chased by dozens of trolls! Lotho was not much older than Frodo but he was larger with a muscular body, an advantage that he gladly used when bullying Frodo. Frodo was well acquainted with that fact, and remembered how painful the blows and kicks Lotho’s powerful limbs delivered could be. Even if the world were at an end and Frodo’s chance to survive was to be under the same roof with that vile boy, Frodo would have preferred to meet his doom instead.

“No, Uncle!” Frodo cried. “I will never voluntarily live with them.” Lotho’s mother, Lobelia, treated Frodo no better than her son did.

“So be it,” said Bilbo grimly. “Then you will have to stay in Brandy Hall longer.” He moved to the fire and poked it to let the embers die down, leaving the young lad staring into the dark and quivering in the chill of the study, desperately wanting to know the meaning of the word ‘longer’.

***

“Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo shrieked and snapped awake. “Oh!” His fingers clamped on his throbbing forehead. Apparently he had hit his head when he had fallen down, seemingly hours ago. Frodo sat up, wincing and blinking. Where was he? Everything was dark and cold, but it certainly was not Bag End, much to Frodo’s confusion and disappointment. He was not in his bedroom either, he realized as he felt the hard floor he was lying on.

Frodo scrambled up to a sitting position, and slowly everything came back to him as he looked down at a crumpled sheet of paper in his fist. This was what his dream was all about. Bilbo’s statement that he had decided to change his plans to take Frodo to Bag End. Bilbo’s denial of the contents of the first letter he had sent to Frodo several days ago. Bilbo’s decision to take a fortnight to be sure of his plans. Bilbo’s reasons for departing on yet another journey, and his heartless offer for Frodo to live with his cousin, Lotho, who had been so ruthless toward Frodo during his short stays at Bag End. Did Bilbo know nothing whatsoever of this matter?

The watery film covering Frodo’s crystal blue eyes swelled and some of it spilled over onto the hobbit’s translucent cheeks. The pulsating pain on his swollen forehead was nothing but numbness compared to the bleeding cuts in his heart right now.

Frodo extended and unclenched his left hand, staring down at the slowly uncrumpled letter. It might contain a number of lines, sentences, or words. But to Frodo, there was only one meaning: rejection. It seemed to him that in the length of two weeks, Bilbo had reconsidered and rethought his decision, and it occurred to the old hobbit that bringing Frodo to Bag End was an unfavorable thing to do.

Frodo brought his right hand to his face and wiped his tears away harshly. He should not act this way. He was not a baby anymore! If Bilbo decided to change his mind, that was completely and definitely his right. Bilbo never promised anything. It might be Frodo’s own fault to let his hope fly high to the star-lit sky, cuddling him in its intoxicating tranquility. When the embrace suddenly vanished, it hurt Frodo so much to slam back down to reality, finding himself alone and forlorn, without anything or anybody to cling to.

Glancing to the door leading to the rest of the big smial, Frodo found himself staring at an unfriendly, if not dejecting, darkness. This place seemed to offer everything. Rooms with their lit fireplaces to keep the inhabitants warm, abundant food at each mealtime to keep the dwellers from starvation. Volumes of books with their amazing tales to make sure the people in this house were well-educated and well-informed. Cheers and laughter both from the adults and children showing how they enjoyed their lives. Adults and children that did not even realize Frodo had not returned to the dining table that night.

But the rooms, the food, and the books were not meant for the poor hobbit. They never had been. Nobody expected him to be here. It was just some cruel trick of fate that made Frodo reside in this place. He was a Baggins, not a Brandybuck. He was not meant to be in Brandy Hall, which, in Frodo’s opinion, was supposed to shelter only the Brandybucks.

Frodo straightened up, staggering a little as his emotions shattered into pieces. It was no use for him to stay at this house any longer. There was nobody to bind him to this place either. Not even Merry. No. That younger cousin of Frodo’s had turned Brandybuck-ish, negligent and insolent toward him.

Frodo rubbed out his wet and slimy nose with the back of his hand, proof that he had been weeping without even realizing it. Yet his heart hardened with a determination. He must get out of this house. If there was someone calling him ‘ungrateful’ now, so be it. He WAS being ungrateful by deciding to step out of the only place that had sheltered him from rain and sun all these years.

Frodo turned the key to the left, unlocking it and opening the door without making any sound. Cool breeze welcomed him, making him unconsciously wrap his arms around his chest to hold at least a little warmth into his body. Frodo did not want to risk waking people who might hinder his escape as he crept into his room to snatch his cloak. (Oh, wake up, Frodo! Do you still expect something like that will happen? His heart mocked.)

For a brief moment, doubts seeped in as if through the pores of Frodo’s skin. Where would he go? He had yet to decide that. What should he do afterwards? Frodo could not tell yet. His days were usually spent in the company of books, and he was unfamiliar with things other tweens might do with their time. Frodo walked further, looking down at the grassy path below his feet, wondering if this would be the last time he’d see it.

***

A deafening crack sounded like the sky ripping in two. Wrapped in his warm blanket, Merry could not help but jump out of his bed, dragging the blanket to Esmeralda’s room.

“Mama!” His small voice pitched in alarm as he burst into his ma’s bedroom and the solace of her soft bed.

“Oh, Little Merry,” whispered Esme lightheartedly. “There, there. It was only thunder, and from so far away. You’re not scared, are you?”

Merry could not help wincing at a flash of lightning, followed by yet another thunderous sound and rain so heavy it might have been poured down from a gigantic bucket.

“Let me sleep here with you, yes, Mama?” Merry’s pleading eyes shone so sadly that Esme hardly had the heart to disapprove. But it was Saradoc who decided everything. The big hobbit hopped out of the bed from the other side and scooped Merry up together with the blanket.

“No, Meriadoc,” said Saradoc sternly, and without even taking an extra breath carried his son’s wrapped form to the door and lowered it down outside the room carefully. “Go back to your own room and sleep tight. You’re a big lad, not a baby.”

Merry flushed and, stomping his foot, darted away quickly to his room, too angry to say anything back to Sara. Whether or not it would be the right thing to do, he cared little. He was so angry that he was not aware of the freezing wooden floor beneath his feet.

Striding hastily in his short steps, Merry stopped dead when reaching the door to Frodo’s room. A wondering thought flashed across his mind. It was unusually quiet inside, yet Merry knew that Frodo was always terrified of thunder as well. Suspicious yet doubtful, Merry rapped softly at the wooden surface.

“Frodo?” called Merry timidly. Gone was all Merry’s displeasure toward the older hobbit that had been haunting him for the last three days.

Merry knocked at the door once more, and decided to open it when there was still no answer.

A cave-like blackness welcomed Merry, forcing him to squint to adjust his vision. With the thick clouds obscuring the moon and the hard rain still gushing down to earth, Merry finally noticed the room’s emptiness with difficulty. He slid forward toward the bed and his hands felt the smooth, silky surface of the mattress sheet, telling Merry wordlessly that Frodo had not been in the bed this whole night.

Merry’s heart sank. “Frodo?” He called again, shakily this time.

Without his knowing it, his feet had brought him to the glass window at the other side of the room. Stunned, Merry fixed his gaze in terror at the layers of water that were still pouring and pouring outside. Could Frodo be outside right now, soaking and shaking in the deadly cold of the rain?

TBC

For Iawen, thanks for your lovely review. And oh, I forgot to mention that this story is betaed by the lovely aelfgifu and MBradford.