Bilbo looked down at the quivering form in front of him. He himself was still shaking with unvented anger. Merry’s voice was still ringing in his ears.

“I didn’t! I didn’t say anything to him!”

And it was just difficult to believe as Bilbo knew Frodo would not simply walk away from Brandy Hall. He knew the child. He knew that Frodo loved living here.

Well, did he?

Did he, Bilbo, really know that?

Then what did all the outrageous joy, demonstrated by the little hobbit every time he paid a visit to Brandy Hall, mean? Why did the big eyes continuously light up when he was here – and only to dim immediately when he realized Bilbo was about to leave? Were those all signs of happiness?

At this point Bilbo suddenly realized that Frodo might not be all that happy to stay here. That Frodo just never told anyone about his true feelings. That he had for a long time been trying to convey that to Bilbo, but the older hobbit just did not seem to realize it. Bilbo puffed loudly, hanging both his arms lifelessly by his sides. How insensitive he had been! While his young cousin might have become sensitive, that the least offensive words or the smallest unfriendly act had been able to render him insensible and cause him to do the most plausible thing a child his age could think of – fly away. Get as far as possible from the one who hurt him.

Even if the one was so much younger than Frodo such as Merry?

Bilbo’s eyes were still set on the hobbit and slowly it dawned on him that it was impossible for Merry to be able to scare Frodo off like that. Something more terrible must have played a role here, and he needed Merry to tell him.

Bilbo willed himself to calm down. It was no use for him to scare Merry, too. He might decide to run away as well! Bilbo smiled bitterly. It was not a joke, and it was not funny. Not funny at all!

He stooped and extended his arms, but Merry was still feeling Bilbo’s anger and scorn, and he backed away.

“No, no, Meriadoc. Come here. I’m not angry with you. Not anymore.” Bilbo tried his most soothing voice. He initially thought he had failed when he saw that Merry did not move, so his heart leapt when Merry finally stirred, slowly approaching him.

“I didn’t say anything to Frodo, Uncle Bilbo,” repeated the poor hobbit. His small voice quaked a little.

“I know, dear, I know,” replied Bilbo, taking Merry to his arms and carrying the hobbit into the house. “But I must know everything that can help us find him.”

Merry’s eyes widened behind the mass of his tangled locks. He stared at Bilbo, whose face was so close to his.

“I… I…”

Here we go, thought Merry. Now he would need all his courage to tell the truth to Uncle Bilbo no matter what should come upon him.

Merry choked in his own sobs as he was trying to pour out his confession. This was so difficult! Merry put his arms around Bilbo’s neck and hugged the older hobbit tightly. Burrowing his head against Bilbo’s shoulder, Merry wept harder. But in between his sobs, he managed to mutter, “I – I am sorry, Uncle Bilbo. I – we’d better go to the library. Come on, Uncle!” He blubbered and cried even louder.

* * *

Bilbo carried Merry in front of his chest and went to the library. He did not know what awaited them there. Should there be any clues concerning Frodo’s whereabouts in the room? All Bilbo knew was that Frodo loved the library. Not only the books in it but the room itself. Frodo said that himself, and now that a serious thing had happened, the fact helped Bilbo see things more clearly and understand his cousin more.

Bilbo huffed out his breath as he lowered Merry down. Merry stood still in front of a table, the very place where he wrote the accursed letter. Yet he only kept staring at Bilbo, eyes reddening, cheeks damp with tears, and lips quivering, trying hard to hold back his weeping. And still he said nothing.

“So?” asked Bilbo, a slight impatience was in his voice. “Why do you bring us here, Merry?”

Merry tried to swallow his tears. The little hobbit then crept toward the back of the table, going to the chair, doubt and fear in his eyes as he gazed upon Bilbo. He only averted his eyes when he opened a drawer and after fumbling through several pieces of paper, Merry pulled out one that looked rumpled and torn. It was torn indeed. In fact, the paper seemed to be only a half of it used to be. Merry took no effort to smooth it. Mutely, he handed out the paper to Bilbo, who, without saying anything, took the paper and studied it while wonder was dancing in his mind. And the crease that had adorned the old hobbit’s brow deepened as he slowly recognized the paper by the words written on it. It was his letter! His own letter sent to Frodo some two weeks ago.

The letter telling that he was going to adopt his beloved young cousin.

The only thing that prevented his coming earlier was that in the letter he had said he would come in two weeks and not before. It was something that he wrote himself, something that – now that he realized it – could be changed. Something that he finally found the courage to do.

But, even then, it had already been too late. Bilbo was too late when he eventually left for Brandy Hall. Frodo was already gone, disappearing to gods knew where.

Bilbo crumpled the useless sheet in his wrinkled hand, as if he wanted it to vanish from his sight, too. It had done nothing but reminded him of his helplessness.

Why? Why, Frodo? Bilbo screamed inside. Is it because I didn’t come soon enough? Was two weeks too long for you to wait?

Bilbo looked at Merry again, gazing as if the person he was facing now was someone of his age, someone who could cleverly read what it was behind his pained look. For some time Bilbo completely forgot that Merry was merely a young lad who was unlikely to ask questions such as ‘Are you all right?’ or “What is troubling your mind?’ or to offer small comforts such as ‘Everything will be fine.’

No, of course not. Meriadoc Brandybuck was still a lad of several summers who even seemed to drown in his own misery right now. And Bilbo in his bafflement was lost in himself. It did not even cross his mind that Merry’s confusion might not only come from seeing Bilbo in such a desolate state. Something else was troubling the boy.

And Bilbo kept looking forlornly, to a vacant space behind Merry now, not paying attention as the young hobbit moved again, taking a more decent sheet of paper and a pencil, and started to scratch something on it.

* * *

Frodo was keenly aware of every movement Finbar made behind his back: dragging the chair closer to the bed and settling himself in it. Frodo did not know though, if the man was sitting straight or crouching in his seat. It did not matter for the hobbit. What really mattered was that Frodo knew Finbar never lifted his eyes off him. He just could feel it.

Breathing heavier every single second, Frodo felt his back and neck getting warmer from the feeling of being scrutinized, feeling his entire body grow more and more tense. Even the bed felt as if it were burning his side.

Amidst the torture he plunged himself into, Frodo suddenly realized that a sleeping person moved sometimes. Exhaling in relief at his own discovery, Frodo stretched a little beneath his blanket and pretended to mumble something in his sleep before he relaxed himself to sleep quietly.

But a string of words ruined his plan.

“What is it?”

It was Finbar, sounding a bit concerned, but in fact shattering the silence between them and Frodo’s hope to keep himself hidden behind his false slumber.

Frodo stiffened – and that was his biggest mistake. Finbar struck him quickly with his next statement, though gently and almost inaudibly.

“I know you’re not sleeping, Frodo,” he whispered almost in Frodo’s ears. “It’s no use trying to deceive me. It won’t work.”

Frodo’s breath hitched and his eyes flew open, staring sharply at the wall across him, unable to say anything, or even to turn around to face the man.

Slowly his face and ears turned red with shame. What if Finbar insisted on questioning him? Then there was the ranger’s voice again.

“There are two reasons why someone runs from his place. Either he is in a grave danger or he is guilty of some kind of a breach.”

Frodo clasped the hem of his blanket so tightly his knuckles turned white. He whimpered softly.

“Those who are in danger normally tell people who help them about what comes upon them,” continued Finbar. “And I’m sure I’m trustworthy enough for that. After all, I’m a ranger. I protect people and their surroundings, and do not seek to harm them.”

The hobbit kept silent although he was definitely listening to the man. And Frodo clenched his eyes shut now, feeling warm tears starting to flow.

Finbar went on.

“I never once heard you ask for help, and you even seem to be reluctant to tell me about your house. Who are you, really, Frodo?”

Frodo fought hard to hold back his sobbing, not wanting to melt over Finbar’s words that would make him reveal everything in the end. He did not want to go back to Brandy Hall. He did not want them to find out that he was alone, unwanted. Frodo was stunned for a moment, trying to remember where he had kept Bilbo’s second letter. He had completely forgotten about it and he knew he had to search for it. The hobbit did not want it to be found by anyone, especially his fellow hobbits who could use it to mock him.

But Finbar was not through with him.

“Your condition was terrible when I found you, Frodo. That’s why I never thought of you as a wicked lad. But you leave me with no choice. Either you speak now, or…”

Frodo turned around abruptly, causing an unpleasant whirling feeling to erupt in his head all of a sudden. Chills ran down his spine.

Or… what? Thought Frodo in dread. Was Finbar now thinking of him as an outlaw? A thief? Would the man finally decide to throw him to jail? Frodo grabbed Finbar’s wrist and clutched it as tightly as his weak hand could manage.

“I…” Frodo croaked. “I – have to pass the water.”

His lips tightened at once and his heart sank as he noticed the frown in Finbar’s eyes, followed by great disappointment. Frodo almost regretted having lied to this gentle ranger. But he could not help it. In the end he could only bow his head deeply.

“I really do,” Frodo murmured.

Finbar seemed like one newly released from a spell, looking slowly into Frodo’s eyes once more and then nodding a little.

“Very well,” he sighed. His plan to get a little information from the hobbit by hinting a threat to him had failed miserably. “Go ahead. It’s outside, on the left.”

Frodo tilted his head, not too vigorously so as to avoid getting dizzy again. He sat up on the bed and slowly lowered his legs over the side. He just realized now how lifeless they had become. He was wondering how many days he had lain dormant in this bed.

“Do you need help?” Asked Finbar. Frodo did not stir from where he sat at the edge of the bed, concentrating on himself, wanting to make sure he was strong enough to walk by without aid.

“No, thank you,” answered Frodo quietly. Oh, this bed is so high!

Frodo clasped the bed sheet with both hands and slid carefully down to place his feet on the floor. The wooden surface felt cold under his hairy feet and Frodo sucked his breath in at the shock of it.

This is not good! Screamed his mind, while his hands again grasped at the bed behind him. He felt his legs shaking harder and his body felt heavy and light at the same time.

It’s just getting worse.

The room was spinning around him now, and when he glanced down at the floor, the dark brown color of it had mysteriously tuned … purple.

“Ma… Da…” whispered Frodo softly. “H-help…” He never knew when his hands started to lose their grip or when his knees gave. Frodo could not tell when he fell unconscious or when Finbar dashed to his direction to catch him before he sank down and landed on the floor with a thud.

“FRODO!” Shouted Finbar.

But he was too late.

TBC