J.M.J

A\N: Hullo Readers! I hope everyone enjoys "Namàrië" as much as I am doing writing it. It is a Frodo Baggins fic to some people's consternation and other's delight. Yet, as a lot of Frodo fics are AU, this one is actually not. It is quite canon on the contrary. Perhaps not canon to some people's mindset about Frodo's thought waves, but everything, to my understanding, follows the "Law and Order of Middle-Earth" if you will. I shall include a Story Summary and Chapter Summary at the beginning of each new chapter (A wonderful idea I picked up from CE'Shaughnessy). And I promise you I will not stop writing, even if it takes me an eternity. I have to say, beta-ing burningSunset's fic, "Wild Child" (beautiful hobbit AU fic, people. Go and read it) has given me some more experience under my belt with the world of writing, which is my very dear passion. I hope once again you enjoy reading, and I would not mind a comment, however casual. I am known for posting elongated Notes at the beginning of my stories, but I assure you they do not come but once at the commencement of the tale. So enjoy and give some critique if you notice any flaws or room for improvement; I will surely PM you if possible or else mention you in the next chapter. And thank you, BrisingrGandalf and TheaterDiva for all of the inspiration & support.

In all haste: Hobbit Freak

Chapter One – Loss, Lasses and Bullies

Story Summary: Frodo Baggins is a lonely lad growing up in Brandy Hall after his parent's death. An outcast and seen as a troublemaker by his family, he has many enemies and few friends. All of that changes when he meets someone who gives him a reason to do more than harbor his angry feelings for the ones who harm him. After he is taken to Bag-End to live with his cousin Bilbo, life begins shaping up for the better as he begins to grow up into a gentlehobbit full of kindness and a free spirit that is nurtured by Bilbo's newfound parenting skills. As the time passes and Frodo inherits Bag-End and another certain trinket which changes his fate forever, he is willing to give up the life he secretly longed for and struggle on to save his homeland and all he holds dear. Pre and Post-War of the Ring.

Chapter Summary: Young twelve-year-old Frodo grieves for the loss of his parents, feeling utterly alone and angry as his uncles and aunts squabble over whom is to take responsibility over him. Time passes, and the lad finds himself a tall lad of seventeen years at a brilliant Lithe celebration. Considered a troublemaker, he acts upon his family's assumptions about him and tries to get into mischief and avoid lasses, only to run into them over and over again plus successfully getting himself battered by bullies.

Once again the lightening flickered away off in the distance; Frodo hugged his knees tighter. The bluish aura of the room reflected the bitter cold that it held. And the cold wasn't the only thing making young Frodo Baggins sniffle. He could still hear the lullaby his mother had sung last week echoing through his mind . . .

Little child, I'm here sweet, just hear my voice. Sleep, love. No, not even the strongest fear can catch your mind now that I'm here, just hear . . . sleep.

A crash of thunder exploded suddenly as the storm approached, shaking the window the lad sat by. Frodo started, and another tear he had been holding in his brilliantly big eyes escaped and rolled down his cheek.

"Love you, Frodo." She had said.

"Where are you going, Mum?" her son had asked, sitting up in bed.

Primula had then ran a hand through Frodo's dark curls, telling him to hush and that his Da and her were going somewhere for a bit. They would be back. Yet now Frodo stared out at the gathering storm outside, wishing that he was down at the bottom of the Brandywine with his parents.

"You said that you'd be back . . . but you're not. Y-you're not . . ."

With this he broke out in gentle bursting sobs, hiding his face in his tucked-up knees. He was alone now. Nobody wanted him. He had overheard his relatives arguing over who was to take him in yesterday evening.

"Well, who's up to it? I expect at least two volunteers to step forward." Old uncle Rory had demanded in an important family meeting he had called that night. Frodo had been peeking around the corner whilst trying not to let his ever-present sobs get too noisy. All had hung their heads in shame for not really wanting to have another mouth to feed. "Dinodas? What about you?" Rorimac had once again questioned, giving his youngest brother a withering stare.Din had no family, and was presently living the life of bachelor-at-ease. Dinodas quickly looked away from the confrontation, mumbling excuses about how "hard life was getting these days."

"Ha! Your fat stomach tells that true enough, Din!" Asphodel spoke up. "I'd take the sweet young lad, Rory, if it wasn't for my failing health. If Rufus were still alive . . ."

Rory had hushed her with a wave of his hand.

"I know you would, Sophie. But that's out of the question."

Then he had added in a hushed whisper, "And you all know that my Saradoc would have the lad, he almost adores him to death, but for his wife's condition. They've lost another wee one right at birth. The lass is still recovering, don't you know. Couldn't possibly expect them to take him! It just is another burden."

Frodo madly wiped his hot tears away as he forced himself to stop thinking about them and what they thought; why did it matter anyway?

"It . . . it doesn't matter who gets me." He reassured himself, drawing the back of his sleeve across his nose, "It really doesn't, does it, Frodo?" The lad was now staring at the window pane. His reflection gazed back at him, the rain making his cheeks and eyes contort with the downpour of squiggly streams of water. "Beautiful Frodo!" He sneered at it, a wave of anger suddenly replacing his grief, "Isn't that what they all say? That I'm a "rare find"? Ha! They don't know how truly hideous I really am. No . . ." Unwelcome thoughts flashed across his mind of the shattered glass on the portraits of Primula and Drogo Baggins lying on the ground. Spread all across the floor of his room like many little naughty children mocking him for breaking his parent's pictures. Glistening glass, mocking, teasing, Silly Frodo's lost but not gone . . . gone like his family; bad, bad son!

No, he was hideous. They'd never understand.

Five years later . . .

The shouts of the other children urged the runners on ever faster; it was Lithe, or midsummer's eve, and the festivities had already exploded at Brandy Hall in an array of snapping banners and lively games. Saradoc had commissioned a great celebration, bigger than any before, three years ago to celebrate the first baby born to him to live; Meriadoc, dubbed Merry. It was a fine boy, if any, looking the exact replica of his father with soft brown curls, a strong chin and that uneven Brandybuck grin. Yet he had his mother's Tookish sense of mischief, and was now the three-year-old horror of Buckland and the entire Marish. And today was the great day of Lithe, and wasn't Merry excided to bring his "brother" Frodo out and show him everything from the pretty streamers to the massive supplies of food set out under the big white terrace.

"Frodo, I'll show you the pretties out there!" he had squealed, clutching Frodo's hand in his own chubby own, massaging it to a pulp. The young Baggins had cracked a smile at this; Merry always became a mess of energy at the sound of "party".

"Well let's go then."

Frodo, hiking Merry up onto his back, had strolled out onto Brandy Hall's lawn, scanning the crowds to see who had shown up. His face brightened at the sight of Cousin Paladin, who had always been kind to Frodo. "Hello Uncle!" he shouted out, waving and giving a rare and genuine smile. Paladin waved back and excused himself from the person he was speaking to (who was Dora Baggins, who was nagging him about his unruly daughters), and came over the two cousins. "Hallo Frodo, Merry!" He greeted, nodding cordially, sticking his thumbs behind his braces and tottering on the balls of his feet, making the middle-aged Took look rather like a young hobbit just out of his tweens. How much I like Cousin Paladin! Thought Frodo, now grinning from ear to ear. "Hello Pearl's da." Merry said matter-of-fact like from Frodo's back, sticking a hand out for him to shake.

"Merry, it's "Uncle" to you." Frodo reprimanded with a smirk. "No harm done, Frodo." Paladin laughed, shaking his cousin's hand, "My! What a handshake young hobbit!" Frodo blushed, looking down at the ground; he forgot that sometimes his grip would startle others . . . they expected less of a lad with so fair a set of hands. After an awkward moment of silence, Mr. Took broke it with, "So, how old are you now Frodo? Last time I saw you, you were that high" he motioned a height with his hand, ", you've shot up since then!"

"I'm seventeen, Mr. Took."

"Seventeen! You'll be thirty-three before long, lad, at the rate you're going."

"I'm just tall, that's all."

Paladin noticed how red the lad's face had grown, and noted that he was shy one. Merry apparently had had enough of being ignored as he shouted out, "I stole THREE WHOLE CAKES from the kitchen and I didn't even get . . ." his proclamation was interrupted by an audacious voice calling for Paladin.

"DA!"

Frodo looked over at the newcomer. It was a lass . . . dear Eru not a lass! The one thing that was scared him more than spiders were girls, and he took a few steps backwards, his brows slowly knitting themselves into a frown. She was only a little lass, perhaps ten or eleven, but her green eyes were filled with the strangest mix of Tookish emotion. Mr. Took was bending down to her level, listening to her problem as she gushed forth her tale, her light brown curls whipping back and forth as she vividly blinked those eyes . . . scary eyes, Frodo thought them.

"Let's go Frodo!"

Apparently Merry had the same feelings about lasses, and the pair slowly backed away unnoticed, slipping back into the crowd. As soon as they were out of sight, Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. "Merry, I hate lasses." He confided to his cousin still clinging to his back while taking in the wonderful smells about him. It was really going to be the biggest Lithe celebration of all, just like Saradoc had said! There were so many pans of seed cakes, why, he could just keep on counting and counting! And those roasting chickens looked absolutely divine the way they gave off their pungent aroma. Ah! His nostrils could not bear it any longer. He must eat something right now, or go completely insane.

"Merry! Let's go snitch some sweet potatoes from Mrs. Goodbodie's pot." Frodo suggested, eyeing the food in mind with a wicked grin, the dark hair that fell in front of his eyes as he set Merry down made him look very boyishly sinister. "YAY!" Merry exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "Shh!" Frodo hissed, shaking his cousin's arm a little. "We need to remain silent if this is going to work, my little minion." He said.

"Frodo?"

"Yes?"

"What's a minion?"

"I do not know."

Shrugging, the two went in search of the coveted prize of sweet potatoes, their very movements abruptly changing to catlike as they dodged old ladies and bobbed past the tomfoolery of the tweenagers. Slipping beneath all of the long tables . . . it was all too easy. At least they hadn't been spotted yet; they'd surely reprimand Merry for following "that orphan" around.

Well I'll show them just how much mischief I can land my cousin and I in, yes, and get grounded for weeks.

Frodo smiled at his thoughts, thinking of all of those horrible stares and comments he would surely receive when all of his extended family would see him making trouble again. He decided long ago that he didn't care about what they thought of him, no, in fact he enjoyed see them squirm when he would focus his fiery blue eyes on theirs when accused of something he hadn't done. Being a stranger in Brandy Hall- the place he had grown up in –suited him just fine. He knew that people gossiped all over the Marish about his shy façade and irksome trouble-causing ways. Pushing those thoughts out of his mind, he concentrated more at the task at hand.

"Merry, I think we should crawl to the left now . . . Merry?"

Looking behind him, Frodo frowned at the absence of his little companion. Where had he gone? Oh well, toddlers were unreliable anyways. The quest must commence, though. Continuing crawling throughout the maze of tables, he slowly made his way to the last table and the sweet potatoes. Approaching it a swift pace on all fours, the young hobbit grinned at the familiar sent of the coveted vegetable. Yet suddenly, he froze in his tracks. Who in the world was that?

There was a lass sitting under Mrs. Goodbodie's table with an enormous bowl of sweet potatoes in front of her. Frodo froze in his tracks, his eyes as wide as saucers. He almost shrieked when she turned toward him, ready to make an escape with her stolen food. No, no, no! Frodo thought wildly, backing up clumsily. Yet it was entirely too late. She crashed into him, orange sauce now dripping from both of their hair. Horror-stricken, the lad shakily brushed a potato off of his nose, gaping at the mass of brown curls spread across his lap. He poked at the face . . . it didn't move. Was she dead? She was dead. Oh no, she was dead! He was a murderer!

Wait. He told himself, something is only dead if it isn't breathing. Quickly laying his head against her chest, he felt the rise and fall of deep breaths. He could then exhale in the realization that he was still an innocent boy.

Then it hit him. There was a girl on his lap. Sweat beads started forming on his forehead as she stirred awake again. He could feel every heartbeat vibrate his ribcage as if a great drum had been placed inside of him.

"Uhhh . . . huh?"

The lass's eyelids flew open, revealing eyes likened to Frodo's, yet much smaller as they squinted with the light of day. Frodo squirmed uncomfortably under her close scrutiny. "Who are you?" she asked bluntly, not at all pleased with the feeling she got from the lad, whoever he was. She searched his face, arms and neck, grimacing at the smears of dirt that he had across his cheeks. Sitting up, the lass disdainfully peered at the soiled trousers she had rested her head upon.

"I-I'm Frodo Baggins! Who are you? Why are you stealing my potatoes? I was here first, you know!"

"They are not your potatoes! I have as much right to them as you do!"

"You do not! Besides, you're a girl."

"And a girl got to them before a lad like you could. Shame, that is."

"You still haven't told me who you are, lass-fiend."

"Cockawhoop."

"That's no name!"

"Is so you affected old Baggins!"

The two hobbits sat glaring at one another for minutes on end, sticky sweet goop trickling down their curls. "You aren't worth my time!" Frodo finally exclaimed, giving an exasperated huff as he crawled out from under the tables. As he emerged a complete mess from head to foot, he tried to brush his trousers off nonchalantly, bouncing up and down and flashing a smile at passersby as to look inconspicuous. He thought that he had done a fair job of it, for he had gone all the way to the first line of pine trees closest to his bedroom window where he was figuring to get through into some clean clothes.

"Queer lasses always make me nervous."

He was stopped in his tracks by a low, taunting voice coming from behind. He tried to not start breathing too quickly at the rapidly approaching footfalls. You can take them today, Frodo Baggins. He told himself inwardly before he swiveled around to face the others. His heart sank; there were four lads, all in their tweens. "What do you want, Tim?" Frodo growled, balling his fists up at his sides. The tallest lad there, Tim Burrows, was in fact as tall as Frodo, but not as gangly of limbs as he. Tim cocked a brow at his companions, giving a small chuckle.

"They wanted me to show them the little orphan whose father murdered his wife. I supposed that I'd show them and here you are!"

A smirk was forming on Tim's face as his friends all snickered at the remark. Frodo's face began to pale at the mention of his parents. His tormentor stepped forward to poke his victim roughly in the chest, saying, "I bet you even knew about your dastardly father's plans, and kept quiet so as to not get a whipping!" Everyone there laughed, except for Frodo who full-force out and punched Tim in the jaw, screaming, "Never speak that way about my father! He was an upright hobbit . . . better than you at least!" At that, he up and kneed him in the vulnerables. The young Burrows doubled over and hollered with pain as the others rushed over to Frodo and kicked his feet out from underneath him. In an instant Frodo was on his stomach crouched in a huddle as the older boys kicked fiercely at his sides and slapped the sides of his face without relent.

"So the Baggins is all alone now, without his Da and Mum to save him? Aww, we should take care of him then!"

The beating continued as Frodo struggled to crouch into a tighter ball, desperately trying to forget about the dull pain that was radiating everywhere on his being as the tweenagers made him into a punching bag. Eyes tightly closed, he could hear Tim shouting, "Haul him up! Haul him up! I wanna get one shot at him, the dirty, rotten . . ." Two lads jerked their prey up by his arms, exposing his face, now streaked with dirt and blood.

"Ha! Still got fight in you, eh?" Tim laughed tonelessly before walloping Frodo straight in the nose, and once in the stomach before they all scattered at the sound of a gaffer's voice approaching. Frodo managed to drag himself behind some bushes by his window before he got there. Then all he could do was lie there in heap, utterly exhausted. He felt like crying. It wasn't fair! They just couldn't all gang up on him like that . . . the only friends he had to back him up were Merry; and he was but a toddler! So feeling so very alone, he fell asleep under the window, oblivious to anything but his anger and pain.