Chapter 1. The River in the Moonlight
Disclaimer: There are two main reasons why I can't possibly be Professor Tolkien. One, if I were, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction. Two, my long and illustrious career (I wish!) would have long since been cut short by the grave. So…I don't own LOTR, so don't sue!
A/N. I realize this is a very short first chapter, but they do get longer! Enjoy!
The moon glittered brightly on the Baranduin, and lit up the dark, sorrow-filled eyes of the young hobbit standing on its banks with a liquid fire. It had been a month since the bereaved twelve-year-old had come to live at Brandy Hall, a whole month since his parents had drowned in this very river. Frodo wondered if he'd ever get used to life without them.
Not that life at Brandy Hall was that bad by a long shot. His grandfather Gorbadoc, though so stout and heavy that to submit to his embrace was to incur mortal peril, was kind enough, and his numerous aunts warm and motherly. As for cousins, there were none near his own age save for one, Rosalcia, who was five. There, Frodo had his freedom, and a never-ceasing supply of excellent food, and he would have been well on the way to being as stout as old Gorbadoc had not grief coupled with a fast metabolism had its effect on him.
Though the facts of the case were never known, it was rumoured that it had been the sumptuous dinners at Brandy Hall that had (indirectly) been Drogo and Primula's downfall. The husband and wife had been staying at Brandy Hall for their wedding anniversary and had gone out boating on the river in the moonlight. The boat had overturned, and Drogo and Primula had drowned. People said, rather unkindly, that it had been Drogo's weight that sunk the boat.
"And so what?" spat Frodo angrily, when Rosalcia had innocently retold the rumour to him earlier that day. His vehemence took the hobbit-child by surprise, and she began to cry. Frodo, who at that moment would have dearly loved to punch someone or something in the face, stared at her for a few silent seconds before turning and running hell-for-leather down to the river. There he stayed, while afternoon turned to evening and evening to night, his anger ebbing away bit by bit, to be replaced by almost uncontrollable grief.
He wanted to scream up at the silver moon, whose brightness seemed to be mocking him, his anger and his confusion. But all he could do was stand there, mute, dry-eyed. At last, exhausted, he curled up on the bank and slept.
The moon above him shone down as bright and unblinking as ever as Frodo struggled up the endless flight of stairs. Dimly, he wondered what on earth the stairs had to do with anything, but they must have been important, for he kept climbing.
He became aware of a noise in his ears, like the lapping of the Brandywine against its banks, only more distant, and amplified into a great roar. His hair was whipping about his head, and above him, unreachable, a tall, white tower.
He struggled on, but then a dark shape flew across the moon, and there came a high, thin wail. In terror, he felt himself falling.
Awareness came back slowly. In that dim place between sleep and waking, he thought he saw an ageless face framed by golden hair bending over him, holding up a crystal filled with light in one hand, but then he woke completely to find himself in his room in Brandy Hall, and his old grandfather was trying and failing to bend over him while he and the aunts kept up a constant refrain of "so worried…couldn't find you…thank heavens you're safe! ... We thought something had…."
The first rays of dawn were already peeping through the windows.
A/N. I'd love to know what you think! Review and tell me if it's good, mediocre, or if Tolkien would be turning in his grave – and if so, tell me how to improve. The next chapter will be longer.