~ Along the way to Buckland ~

Bilbo jumped onto Albert’s back, the strong, young pony not even stirring at the added weight. Bilbo took the reins and fixed his settled himself comfortably.

“Well I’m going, Hamfast. Take care of yourself and take care of Bag End!”

“I cert’nly will, Master Baggins! Nuthin’ you should worry ‘bout, sir, except that nephew of yours. You go and pick him up. Bring him back here safely. He’s a fine lad, I reckon, from the sound of things!”

Bilbo could not help smiling. Old Hamfast had heard enough from his chattering mouth about Frodo to grow to love the boy as much as he did.

“I assure you of that, Hamfast,” Bilbo said, thinking of nothing but bringing Frodo to Bag End. “Frodo is such a smart stunning lad.”

Hamfast lifted up his hat a bit in salute and to wish Bilbo well on his journey as the old hobbit lightly tapped Albert’s flank to prod the pony forward.

“Good bye, and so long! Yet I won’t be long, and before you know it…”

Hamfast bowed his head and maintained the pose even after Bilbo disappeared around a bend in the path. The gardener did not completely agree, though, about whether or not Bilbo would be long in returning. He knew how far it was from Hobbiton to Buckland. Even if Albert kept a fast pace, Bilbo would not get to the Brandybucks’ residence in less than a day and a night, and it would take just as long for Bilbo and Frodo to return.

After some time, Bilbo came to a small path next to the East Road. Drawing one long breath, he realized that he always liked to ride along this trail every time he journeyed to the east. The terrain he traveled was not so coarse nor so soft as to trouble the pony. Along the road on both sides, trees were grew densely and their branches interwove so closely with the leaves they formed a gigantic canopy shading any trampers from the scorching heat of the sun.

All of this suddenly sparked a memory long past and a song echoed in Bilbo’s head.

O! What are you doing,

And where are you going?

Your ponies need shoeing!

The river is flowing!

O! tra-la-la-lally

here down the valley!

O! Where are you going

With beards all a-wagging?

No knowing, no knowing What brings Mister Baggins

And Balin and Dwalin

down into the valley

in June

ha! ha!

Bilbo skipped some parts and stopped altogether as he could no longer contain his laughter as he remembered. What a great adventure! Balin and Dwalin. Kili and Fili. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur! No, the list was not exhausted yet, but Bilbo, in the midst of his mirth born of recollection did not seem to be able to recall more names.

Oh, how the questions in the song inspired him, and Bilbo exulted to know that he had exactly the right answers.

O! What are you doing? And Bilbo gleefully replied, “Riding on my pony in the middle of the woods.” (Though this was hardly a proper wood!)

And where are you going? The answer came swiftly, “To Buckland. To Brandy Hall. To the place where Frodo shall wait.”

A question cried again. What brings Mister Baggins… down into the valley?

Bilbo tightened and loosened Albert’s reins, not that it confused the kind beast in the slightest, just caused it to dance a bit, like Bilbo’s heart at the moment. Bilbo chanted yet another reply.

“To go to Frodo and bring him. Bring him where? To Bag End, for sure!”

Bilbo wandered with such reckless joviality that he did not realize he had come to Bywater Pool near Bywater. Such a fleeting trip!

But as he was nearing Three Farthing Stone, the shady canopy was slowly thinning and Bilbo could see the sky again, which brought him to a new realization. He could not see the sun. He thought at first it was because of the trees, but no. Bilbo looked up, noticing the dark, gathering clouds, and heaved a sigh of dismay, although as far as he could remember, there had been no sign of the sun even before he had left Bag End. Clouds, clouds everywhere, even if they were not thick and heavy like the ones he saw looming ahead. If only Bilbo knew it were not only clouds that came upon Buckland…

***

~ Along the way through the woods ~

Through the wet surroundings, soggy land, leaves with water clinging on their pointy tips, and damp yet refreshing air, the hooded figure was carrying Frodo along through the night. Sometimes cradled in the man’s arms and at other times draped gently against his shoulder, Frodo was warmly wrapped in the human’s spare blanket, leaving only his face unhidden.

The man wandered unceasingly, never thinking of even a moment of rest. Frodo’s faint, almost unnoticeable breaths willed him even more to reach the clearing where his shabby lodge lay. There, he would have a chance to warm Frodo further and to help him recover from what ailed him.

Sighing in deep concern, the man increased the speed of his pace.

***

~ In the ranger’s arms and lodge ~

Frodo moved restlessly in his insensible state and mumbled softly, his eyes still shut as tightly as before. Although blackness still engulfed him, Frodo gradually grew warmer as the soft blanket hugged him so comfortably and the arms around his upper body and legs held him fast and strong. The tightness across Frodo’s brow was slowly fading as his body became more relaxed. Unconsciously his mind began to wonder for the sensation of being safe, secure, and protected. Could this be… Could this be…

“Papa?”

The voice, however small and almost incomprehensible, was not completely unheard. The man stiffened, afraid that Frodo might worsen or get sick again, and he tightened his hold on the halfling.

“Hush, little one,” he persuaded softly. “We’re almost there.” He could not explain even to himself why he bothered to tell that to Frodo. But he spoke anyway, carrying on, “A few more turns, past several oaks and ashes, and we’ll get to my house!” The human smiled faintly. “A house! What a boastful word for a mere log cabin, but a home nevertheless!”

The man moved with faster and more enthusiastic steps, his heart lifted by the encouraging thoughts of near and welcome shelter.

***

Still drowning in the bleakness of insensibility, Frodo wondered at who might have rocked him to a constant slumber. Frodo was certain that it was his father while his conscious mind told him with undeterred determination that his father had long left him. Drowned. Breathless. Deceased.

No, Frodo denied soundlessly. His father had always done exactly the same as this when lulling him to sleep. Frodo would curl himself close and nuzzle his face deep into Drogo’s warm chest. No. No. This sensation had been much too similar. It must be his father! Frodo even began to imagine looking to the left and right, as if to see if Primula happened to be there as well, before he had a feeling that he was being slapped.

“W – what?” Frodo gasped in his sleep-like state. A voice in his head came again.

“Wake up, you fool! Come back to reality. He’s dead! She’s dead! Your parents are dead! Can you not see that?”

Frodo flinched and squirmed uncomfortably.

“Are they?” he hissed.

“Yes!” Screamed the conscious part of him. “If not, why should you stay with the Brandybucks?” In his stillness, Frodo went even stiller. The question cut his heart deeply, reminding him of his pain.

Gone was the brief hope. Now Frodo had to accept once more the inevitable, tormenting fact of… Frodo sobbed hard and even harder still as it dawned on him that the comforting rocking had ceased long since. and the dizziness, nausea, and throbbing pain in his ankle were returning.

Frodo wept still, raising his hand to rub over his eyes, and they flew open. His father was not there, there were no arms cuddling him, no rocking motion. There was simply nobody with him. Frodo blinked away the rest of his tears and daze, and stopped crying altogether.

To his wonder, Frodo found himself lying on a bed thrice as big as his own in Buckland. He was still huddled in a blanket, though, one that was completely unfamiliar to him.

Frodo tried to raise himself using his elbows to support him, but his body fell back to the mattress as a swirling sensation attacked him and bile rose in his throat. Frodo swept his gaze around the room in an attempt to avert his thoughts and to stop him from throwing up. He breathed in deeply in relief as he calmed himself, silently congratulating himself for his success.

Frodo’s eyes were still darting around his surroundings and he could see that this was not only a room. This was a hut, quite big and fully furnished, though Frodo would say that it was not often occupied. The hobbit could see a so-called study, with mixed things on a table, from scrolls to dishes, quills and daggers, from water skin to unlit torch. Panic started to creep into Frodo’s gut. Some of these objects were not so familiar to a hobbit. Besides scrolls and quills, never in his life had Frodo seen such things on his uncle Sara’s table. Frodo tried to rid his mind of awful thoughts and looked to another table in the corner opposite the bed he was in.

This time he spotted a big basin with a towel draped on its side. Empty bottles were lined near it against the wall. The hobbit wondered what was previously inside them. A chair stood beside the table, and what Frodo saw caused his breath to catch in his throat. A huge, no, Frodo repeated silently, a massive cloak was draped carelessly over it.

Panic seized him. This was no hobbithole! This belonged to one of the Big Folk. They had captured him!

Sitting up swiftly despite his lightheadedness, Frodo snapped his head to the direction of the window. It was too small and too high for him to reach. Frodo’s brow knitted in dismay. There was no way he could escape through it. The only way was…

“No, he will be all right. I can manage, thank you.”

Frodo froze as he overheard a voice on the other side of the closed door. Now it was entirely impossible for him to flee, especially through that exit.

Yet, Frodo was also stunned by the manner of the voice. It was not thunderous or alarming, but subdued, gentle, almost kind. It reminded him of his father.

Frodo slid back bonelessly to the bed, eyes closing slowly.

Then there came the sound of the door handle being turned.

TBC

AN: Grey Wonderer, thanks so much for your nice comments!