“Frodo Baggins! You have a message. Here, take it.”

And Merry observed through the curtain of his lashes. This is it, thought Merry. A small lad he had paid to deliver ‘Bilbo’s letter’ had arrived and was going to hand it in to Frodo, or in this case, through Merry’s father, Saradoc. Then any time soon Frodo would tear up the envelope, unfold the paper, and –

Merry grinned silently, contentedly. The letter would teach Frodo some lessons – to be more subtle next time – as he had been so ‘improperly’ happy about the future arrangement to live with Bilbo, and Frodo had shown how ungrateful he was despite everything he had got during his stay in Brandy Hall. Merry almost choked at his last spoonful of food as he realized how correct his action had been. He silently gathered up the “evidence” in his head. Merry’s parents had sheltered, clothed, and fed the boy. But what did his cousin do in return? Jumped at the first chance to get better things than what he had received here.

Merry lowered his face until it hovered just about half an inch from his plate full of mashed potato, mushroom stew and slices of roast chicken. But Merry’s mind was hardly on the food anymore. His jaw tightened at the thought of Frodo, but his eyes showed a definite pride as he pictured his parents beaming at him with gratitude. It was no longer the potato or mushrooms that Merry saw on his plate but his proud ma and da.

Merry giggled cheerily, but quickly stopped himself before the other hobbits gathering around him on this long table started to give him curious glances. Merry struggled to calm himself but – oh! How he was dying to be with Frodo right now, to see how exactly Frodo reacted when he got to see the letter. His older cousin had always been so expressive and was such an open book. One could easily tell what was inside Frodo’s heart simply by sinking into those blue eyes. And the sight of Frodo’s being heart-broken must prove to be priceless.

But some doubts could not help creep into Merry. Would his older cousin of his buy it? Or would Frodo see how different Merry’s hand-scribing from Bilbo’s was? Of course Merry could not possibly have any idea how deeply his remarks on Frodo’s ungratefulness had punctured the poor hobbit’s heart, left a deep scar upon it, and thus rendered Frodo senseless and beyond rational thought.

But then the clock kept ticking and suddenly Merry found himself alone at the table as all of his relatives either had gone to bed or withdrawn to whatever activities unknown to Merry as the joyous dinner had come to its end. Yet, there was no sign of Frodo at all. The dark, curly hair that framed Frodo’s angular, pale face never re-appeared at the dining hall. Anxiety started to grow in Merry’s heart as his eyes swept over the practically untouched food Frodo had left behind. What had happened? Where did Frodo go and thus decide not to return and finish his dinner?

Merry was about to sneak into the living room when his father suddenly came out at the door and urged Merry to go to bed right away. Not wanting to make his father angry, Merry dashed to his room immediately, and the thoughts about Frodo were set aside completely.

***

Until now.

Or some time before now when the storm and lightning suddenly reminded Merry of Frodo’s fear of them. Many nights had they – Merry and Frodo – spent together, curling up in one bed, trying to comfort each other from the cracking noises of the thunder. And tonight Merry had thought to sleep in Frodo’s room again after having been hushed out of his parents’ room.

But the dark clouds, cascades of water, and the swinging, old ash tree outside had all witnessed the deserted room, devoid of the miserable soul that was usually hugged warmly and lovingly by an aged blanket. A blanket formerly belonged to Frodo’s mother, Primula, that had been passed on to Frodo to preserve the memory of his late parents.

Merry turned his gaze from the empty bed back to the heavy rain outside, his eyes stung with tears clinging and threatening to spill over his cheeks.

A blanket. Right. Frodo had only a blanket to keep him warm since his parents passed away. Nobody. There was truly nobody that had sincerely given him enough attention a child, a young child, normally got. Lucky for Frodo, his young cousin, Merry, soon grew to become his closest and dearest friend. And then Frodo found out that a relative from his father’s side, Bilbo, was fond of him, too.

So it was just normal if Frodo had then been overflowed with sheer happiness when Bilbo asked him to live with the older hobbit. It was not the food or clothes that Frodo was after. It was a little bit of attention. Mere attention. The simplest thing a child could ask. Frodo might be not a child anymore, physically, but deep inside he craved for it, the attention. To make up for what had been missing in his life.

And he, Merry, had been so cruelly ruined the only hope Frodo had. Worse, Merry had also unempathically accused Frodo of being something Merry did not even dare to remember it now. What was he thinking? And not once had Merry told Frodo that he was happy for him. He was too busy perfecting, or rather, imitating his handwriting to be as close as Bilbo’s so that he could then send a letter on behalf of that old gentlehobbit! A letter that contained lies and nothing more. Merry could not believe that had been willing to sacrifice his playing time and bury himself in the library in order to write that wretched letter! He spent his time to practice, practice, and practice. Oh, Merry could see now how some people succeeded in what they wanted to achieve. That is, you had to have a strong will that came from inside. That way ---

Merry’s head snapped up.

Library!

Yes, of course! Why did he not think of that? Frodo had always been fond of the room and often went there whenever he needed a sanctuary. The place meant a lot more than his room to Frodo.

Merry wiped out his tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand, whirled around, and stormed out of Frodo’s room to the library. Merry half ran along the hall but kept his steps light so as not to make any noise. He breathed heavily as he reached the library, and, praying silently, Merry knocked the door in soft raps. Frodo might be asleep in there and he did not want to scare the older lad.

Assured that Frodo was indeed sleeping, as there was no reply, Merry clicked the door open and tried to keep the squeaking sound to its minimum. It was raining and it was impossible for the others that dwelled there to hear him. But Merry did not want to risk it.

“Frodo?” called Merry in a soft whisper. Still no answer.

Merry stepped in. Again, just like what he had done in Frodo’s room, Merry needed to adjust his sight in the dim chamber. Dashing his hope, Merry threw his glance to the desk. But it stood solitary and unoccupied, to his dismay. Merry had expected to find Frodo slumped over it, his head down on his forearms, sound asleep. Disappointment assailed Merry once again. Frodo was not there, and Merry could not imagine that Frodo would be anywhere else in the room.

Merry sighed. Hs hands clutched at the back of the chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Shudders after shudders swept over his tiny body. Merry almost cried out in despair and misery. It dawned on him then that Frodo had decided to leave Brandy Hall. Merry swallowed hard. Frodo was running away and it was all because of him! In his helplessness, Merry realized there was the least effort he could do to mend the damage he had done. He had to tell his parents.

Shoulders sagging, eyes darting fearfully at the door to his parents’ room that suddenly seemed to grow higher, towering over him, Merry struggled to overcome his fear at what his parents would say to him. His body shook hard. But he had to do this. And he did – he tapped at the wooden panel, softly yet it sounded like the drumming thunder to Merry’s ears.

“Father? Mother?” Merry opened the door slowly, full of doubts. “I have something to tell you.”

***

Frodo never knew weather could be as chilling as this, especially since he was clothed in just a thin shirt and breeches. Frodo breathed deeply and wrapped his arms around his body. He began to question his own actions.

But looking back to direction of Brandy Hall, Frodo knew that he just could not return. There was nothing there for him. His new place might offer him more.

--- what new place? Frodo barely knew where his steps would bring him. Deep inside, though, he hoped that the paths would lead him to Hobbitton. Bag End. Would Bilbo be willing to change his mind after seeing Frodo at the very front of his smial’s door?

Frodo quivered slightly, wrapping his arms around even more tightly. He had never felt this helpless. Yet he could not give up now. It seemed hours that he had walked through the fields and meadows. Frodo did not dare to take the usual roads, afraid that he would come across someone he knew – which seemed to be an impossible thing to happen. It was quite late already and there was nothing around Frodo but darkness.

The small hobbit almost regretted leaving in the night. Should he walk in the light, he would have breathtaking sceneries accompanying him. The greenness of the grass field, the inviting glen, the trail that started on the hilltop and led to the sedge meadow wetlands north of a corn field belonging to – whom? Frodo could not remember.

The images of those beautiful things were at least able to lift Frodo’s spirits somewhat, making his steps quicker and surer. It was too bad there was no moonlight.

Frodo looked up to the sky. No. No moon and no stars at all. Frodo’s throat tightened all of a sudden. There were only thick, dark clouds.

Dread and panic flashed across Frodo’s features, and his brow knotted. What if it rained? Frodo glanced around. Despite the dimmed surrounding, he could still see that there were no trees big enough to shelter him, only shrubs and bushes.

CRACK! BOOM!

Frodo jumped at the first cracking thunder following a flash of lightning. He shook violently and broke into a run. He glimpsed a cluster of shadows a distance away that could be trees, and the rain began to fall.

Lightning struck and thunder roared. Frodo was drowned in terror. He always hated thunder. The rain came down in a torrent.

His face soaked with both rainwater and tears, Frodo dashed toward the shadow, running as fast as he could like crazy.

But suddenly Frodo tripped over something hard, a rock or a heavy piece of wood. He heard something crack and with a loud cry, he tumbled to the ground. His ankle! He had twisted it mercilessly, and he now clutched it with both hands as his tears streamed freely. Elbereth, it hurt!

TBC

AN: Thanks again for the review, Iawen. That means a lot to me!