This Life
Written by Northelle
Summary: Elanor Gamgee stumbles upon a very special hobbit, without a memory, who has come from across the Sea...
This is my first LOTR fanfiction... but... let's not dwell on that, eh? Yes, you're here for a Frodo!Returns fic, you're going to get one.
Rating: PG-13 (some violence, battle-wounds and their aftermath)
Disclaimer: Of course; I don't own anything (like the characters) in this fic, but the text and plot is mine. I don't make any money off of this. It is purely for 'fun' and for the enjoyment of others, if they wish.
Feedback: Feedback is awesome, but please, no flames!
Author's notes:
This particular fanfiction takes place in the year 1458 and beyond. Elanor is 37 years old, Elfstan is three. I'm going to take a flying leap and call Fastred 38 years old, because I can't find his age in the book. If anyone knows it, tell me! Frodo (yes, yes, he IS in this story, under a different name, but it isn't going to be hard for you to spot him) is around 85 years old, but because of the time passing in Valinor, he looks to be much younger... I'll go with about sixty. I'd like to add that I'm not copying this idea from anyone; this fiction is all but complete, and I have been writing it for a while now. Unfortunately, work and school hasn't permitted me to fix and post lately. Read on!
----------
Chapter One
When Elanor first saw him, he was stumbling along dizzyingly, groping at the air, murmuring strange things in an odd tongue. Elanor was just arriving from her cart, where she was unloading things from the market. She had lived in Westmarch, with her husband, Fastred, and her son, Elfstan, for more than three years now. Fastred was still in their cozy house, working on his book on the History of hobbits. Elanor had decided to unload more things before second breakfast, before her husband came out and took over. It would be winter soon, and they had to stock the larder with food before it came.
It was when Elanor came out of the cart with two heavy boxes underneath her arms that she spotted him. It was strange, because he hadn't been there a moment ago. His breathing was hoarse as if he hadn't had a drink for days, and he was thin, and obviously delerious. His dark eyes shone feverishly as he turned to look at Elanor, who stood shocked. It was odd for anyone to be coming around their home this early. Fastred *was* the Warden. Maybe someone was hurt?
"You must help me..." he said slowly, painfully, "it has fallen..."
When he took a step towards her and tripped, catching his feet on his cloak (which had been rent in nearly two, tattered at his feet) he had fallen, and Elanor noticed a deep gash on the back of his head, and red stains soaking into his dark hair and odd white clothing.
"It is burning..."
----------
"Fastred! Help me, *now*!"
Fastred leapt out of his desk. Having a talent for writing, he had been sifting through some notes on the Shire history before his wife had called. He literally threw himself out of the study, through the hall and into the foyer, where Elanor was struggling with what looked like another hobbit, injured. His right arm was draped over her neck, and she carried him the best she could before Fastred came and held him steadyingly.
"What happened?" he asked, noticing the kinsman's odd clothes and crimson-seeping wound. "Who is this?"
"I don't know," Elanor said hurryingly, leaving Fastred to look for something to bind the head-wound with, "he keeps saying something is burning. We have to stop the bleeding on his head. Ahh, where did we put the bandages?!"
"I think they're are in the privvy," said Fastred, before he was cut off by Elanor. "Ugh! Fastred, lay him on the daybed, quickly. I'll go look for them. Don't let him fall asleep!"
Before another word was spoken, Elanor had swiftly ran down the hall, leaving Fastred with a pen still in his hand carrying the wounded kinsman to the foyer bench. Fastred made sure he lay on his stomach, as to not make the wound hurt anymore than it already did. It looked ugly, with dirt mixed in with the blood. It seemed to be scabbed nearly over... Fastred guessed he may have had it for some time, but some other force had kept it from healing.
Elanor skidded back into the foyer, carrying a small box. "Thank my Father that he made us bring this," she said, seeming to kneel down, open the container, and sift through it all at the same moment. She was eager to help this hobbit, since she had grown up quite spoiled, without the chance to help anyone like this. Her brother Frodo had gotten a wound like this by a wild pony, and she had been around to see how to heal it. It wasn't as large as the one at hand at that moment, but it was seemingly the same.
As she began to clean the hobbit's wound with a dry, clean white fabric, he began to hiss and moan in the pain, his hands clenching at nothing.
"It's alright," said Elanor, "we'll fix you up real quick, and maybe help you find your way home."
"Burning... It's burning... you must stop it..." he murmured. Fastred watched as a tear slid down his face. "It has fallen... It has fallen."
"He's delerious, Fastred," said Elanor numbly, still dutifully cleaning away, having often to pull out a new clean cloth. When she began to gently pick and scrape away at the debris on the inside of the wound, he cried out feebly in a different language.
"What do you suppose he's speaking about?" asked Fastred, coming up with a bottle of iodine that seemed to be older than him.
"I don't know," she said. "Give me that iodine and grab his hand. He'll probably be in more pain than he is now... That should stop him from trying to flail out and stop me."
Fastred took up his right hand and squeezed it gently. "Elanor's going to clean it out, alright? It is going to hurt."
The hobbit said nothing, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and shaking his head. Elanor hastily tipped the bottle right into the wound, stopping the brown, acidic liquid from falling onto his clothes with an extra rag. Fastred winced as the grip on his hand tightened; it felt like it was being crushed between two rocks.
Soon, though, Elanor was done, quickly wrapping the wound with bandages, around the base of the skull and over his forehead. She tied it gently yet tightly, so it would not fall off if he rubbed it against something. The grip upon Fastred's hand loosened, and he pulled it away, staring with disbelief at the bruise forming there.
Elanor nodded with satisfaction. "Good, he seems to be asleep. We'll have him take him to the Doctor, and see what's wrong with him," she said, patting the injured hobbit's hand gently. "Come on, Fastred, let's let him rest."
----------
The pain in his head had lulled to a throbbing ache, hurting only when he dared to move. What had happened? His thoughts and mind seemed to be full of fog, and darkness. Only one thing came to him as he lay; only one word he could remember.
*Bronwe.*
He shifted. All was quiet, and he wondered if he was dead. Why was he hurting? He opened his eyes a crack and found himself staring at the inside of a wooden room with one window. He was on his stomach, on a comfortably cushioned piece of furniture large enough to hold his entire body.
*Bronwe.*
The name came to his mind again; nagged at him. Why was it so familiar, yet so foriegn? If only he could remember... He had a feeling that he had seen something terrible, and his mind was trying to hide it from him. Who *was* he? For the sake of all things good, he didn't even know his name! Where had he come from, and where was he now?
He had to find out. Opening his eyes fully, he took stock of his position again. On his stomach, something around his head, head aching, aching, burning...
It is burning... It has fallen...
Burning! With that thought, an instant vision of fire came to him. Fire... something was in danger. He knew it.. he knew something was in danger. But what? He was so frustrated he could barely breathe.
Fire engulfing a single white tree.
He leapt out of the bed and immediately groped back for it, wincing at the wave of pain and dizzyness that hit him like an iron pole. It took his breath away, and for a long moment, he had to pause to regain himself. Finally, though, he stood, looking at his shadow cast by the bright morning light seeping into the window. He looked at his hands. They were pale. He patted himself. Nothing else seemed hurt. His clothes... white... silky... dirty.
Bronwe.
Yes, now he knew. Bronwe... was his name... or at least he thought it was. Since it was the only thing he could remember at all... except the fire... he decided he would call himself that until he could remember his real name. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly across the room, feeling light and fuzzy. Perhaps it was just the sunlight streaming into his eyes, or his aching head- he did not know.
As he took a step towards the door, he was suprised to see it fling open. A woman, about his size, and very beautiful, stood in the doorway. She had hair like fire... and eyes like grass. Bronwe blinked very slowly. She was stunned for a moment, but after that she gently took his hand and sat him back down on the bed.
"Now, now," she said, pushing him gently back, "you can't get up yet, lad. You have to stay here, until we get you a doctor."
Bronwe took another deep breath. "What happened to me?"
----------
Elanor smiled. Finally, he had woken up! It had to be near midmorning now, though.
"I found you with a cut on your head," she said. Then, she added quietly, "Don't you remember?" He shook his head slowly. He seemed to be in a daze, never taking his eyes off of her face. "Can you tell me your name, or where you come from?"
Elanor began to notice that he had quite enamoring eyes. They were a dull, saddened blue, like the sky just before night fell and the moon came out. She thought she could see a distant, painful memory, or perhaps many, stir behind his gaze as he stared at her... but finally he managed to say- in the softest voice Elanor could remember- "Bronwe... My name..." he trailed off.
"Your name is Bronwe," Elanor congratulated herself silently for finding out his name. "Bronwe," she repeated, "that is an odd one... That's certainly not any word in the Shire-language."
"Shire?" He seemed so lost, Elanor concluded. Those eyes of his had a mingled look of confusion and ache and loss that they nearly covered his innocent question.
Elanor gulped. "That's where I live, where all us Hobbits live. Middle-Earth, my lad... Don't you know that?"
"Hobbits," he repeated, as if the name were new to him.
"Aye," said Elanor. She looked at him for another moment, and he looked back at her. Both were completely silent with their own thoughts. Elanor was beginning to feel like she had known him, somehow, long ago, before now. Bronwe was feeling the same way. Another moment of staring, and Elanor asked quietly, in almost a whisper...
"Do I know you?"
~TBC~
Written by Northelle
Summary: Elanor Gamgee stumbles upon a very special hobbit, without a memory, who has come from across the Sea...
This is my first LOTR fanfiction... but... let's not dwell on that, eh? Yes, you're here for a Frodo!Returns fic, you're going to get one.
Rating: PG-13 (some violence, battle-wounds and their aftermath)
Disclaimer: Of course; I don't own anything (like the characters) in this fic, but the text and plot is mine. I don't make any money off of this. It is purely for 'fun' and for the enjoyment of others, if they wish.
Feedback: Feedback is awesome, but please, no flames!
Author's notes:
This particular fanfiction takes place in the year 1458 and beyond. Elanor is 37 years old, Elfstan is three. I'm going to take a flying leap and call Fastred 38 years old, because I can't find his age in the book. If anyone knows it, tell me! Frodo (yes, yes, he IS in this story, under a different name, but it isn't going to be hard for you to spot him) is around 85 years old, but because of the time passing in Valinor, he looks to be much younger... I'll go with about sixty. I'd like to add that I'm not copying this idea from anyone; this fiction is all but complete, and I have been writing it for a while now. Unfortunately, work and school hasn't permitted me to fix and post lately. Read on!
----------
Chapter One
When Elanor first saw him, he was stumbling along dizzyingly, groping at the air, murmuring strange things in an odd tongue. Elanor was just arriving from her cart, where she was unloading things from the market. She had lived in Westmarch, with her husband, Fastred, and her son, Elfstan, for more than three years now. Fastred was still in their cozy house, working on his book on the History of hobbits. Elanor had decided to unload more things before second breakfast, before her husband came out and took over. It would be winter soon, and they had to stock the larder with food before it came.
It was when Elanor came out of the cart with two heavy boxes underneath her arms that she spotted him. It was strange, because he hadn't been there a moment ago. His breathing was hoarse as if he hadn't had a drink for days, and he was thin, and obviously delerious. His dark eyes shone feverishly as he turned to look at Elanor, who stood shocked. It was odd for anyone to be coming around their home this early. Fastred *was* the Warden. Maybe someone was hurt?
"You must help me..." he said slowly, painfully, "it has fallen..."
When he took a step towards her and tripped, catching his feet on his cloak (which had been rent in nearly two, tattered at his feet) he had fallen, and Elanor noticed a deep gash on the back of his head, and red stains soaking into his dark hair and odd white clothing.
"It is burning..."
----------
"Fastred! Help me, *now*!"
Fastred leapt out of his desk. Having a talent for writing, he had been sifting through some notes on the Shire history before his wife had called. He literally threw himself out of the study, through the hall and into the foyer, where Elanor was struggling with what looked like another hobbit, injured. His right arm was draped over her neck, and she carried him the best she could before Fastred came and held him steadyingly.
"What happened?" he asked, noticing the kinsman's odd clothes and crimson-seeping wound. "Who is this?"
"I don't know," Elanor said hurryingly, leaving Fastred to look for something to bind the head-wound with, "he keeps saying something is burning. We have to stop the bleeding on his head. Ahh, where did we put the bandages?!"
"I think they're are in the privvy," said Fastred, before he was cut off by Elanor. "Ugh! Fastred, lay him on the daybed, quickly. I'll go look for them. Don't let him fall asleep!"
Before another word was spoken, Elanor had swiftly ran down the hall, leaving Fastred with a pen still in his hand carrying the wounded kinsman to the foyer bench. Fastred made sure he lay on his stomach, as to not make the wound hurt anymore than it already did. It looked ugly, with dirt mixed in with the blood. It seemed to be scabbed nearly over... Fastred guessed he may have had it for some time, but some other force had kept it from healing.
Elanor skidded back into the foyer, carrying a small box. "Thank my Father that he made us bring this," she said, seeming to kneel down, open the container, and sift through it all at the same moment. She was eager to help this hobbit, since she had grown up quite spoiled, without the chance to help anyone like this. Her brother Frodo had gotten a wound like this by a wild pony, and she had been around to see how to heal it. It wasn't as large as the one at hand at that moment, but it was seemingly the same.
As she began to clean the hobbit's wound with a dry, clean white fabric, he began to hiss and moan in the pain, his hands clenching at nothing.
"It's alright," said Elanor, "we'll fix you up real quick, and maybe help you find your way home."
"Burning... It's burning... you must stop it..." he murmured. Fastred watched as a tear slid down his face. "It has fallen... It has fallen."
"He's delerious, Fastred," said Elanor numbly, still dutifully cleaning away, having often to pull out a new clean cloth. When she began to gently pick and scrape away at the debris on the inside of the wound, he cried out feebly in a different language.
"What do you suppose he's speaking about?" asked Fastred, coming up with a bottle of iodine that seemed to be older than him.
"I don't know," she said. "Give me that iodine and grab his hand. He'll probably be in more pain than he is now... That should stop him from trying to flail out and stop me."
Fastred took up his right hand and squeezed it gently. "Elanor's going to clean it out, alright? It is going to hurt."
The hobbit said nothing, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and shaking his head. Elanor hastily tipped the bottle right into the wound, stopping the brown, acidic liquid from falling onto his clothes with an extra rag. Fastred winced as the grip on his hand tightened; it felt like it was being crushed between two rocks.
Soon, though, Elanor was done, quickly wrapping the wound with bandages, around the base of the skull and over his forehead. She tied it gently yet tightly, so it would not fall off if he rubbed it against something. The grip upon Fastred's hand loosened, and he pulled it away, staring with disbelief at the bruise forming there.
Elanor nodded with satisfaction. "Good, he seems to be asleep. We'll have him take him to the Doctor, and see what's wrong with him," she said, patting the injured hobbit's hand gently. "Come on, Fastred, let's let him rest."
----------
The pain in his head had lulled to a throbbing ache, hurting only when he dared to move. What had happened? His thoughts and mind seemed to be full of fog, and darkness. Only one thing came to him as he lay; only one word he could remember.
*Bronwe.*
He shifted. All was quiet, and he wondered if he was dead. Why was he hurting? He opened his eyes a crack and found himself staring at the inside of a wooden room with one window. He was on his stomach, on a comfortably cushioned piece of furniture large enough to hold his entire body.
*Bronwe.*
The name came to his mind again; nagged at him. Why was it so familiar, yet so foriegn? If only he could remember... He had a feeling that he had seen something terrible, and his mind was trying to hide it from him. Who *was* he? For the sake of all things good, he didn't even know his name! Where had he come from, and where was he now?
He had to find out. Opening his eyes fully, he took stock of his position again. On his stomach, something around his head, head aching, aching, burning...
It is burning... It has fallen...
Burning! With that thought, an instant vision of fire came to him. Fire... something was in danger. He knew it.. he knew something was in danger. But what? He was so frustrated he could barely breathe.
Fire engulfing a single white tree.
He leapt out of the bed and immediately groped back for it, wincing at the wave of pain and dizzyness that hit him like an iron pole. It took his breath away, and for a long moment, he had to pause to regain himself. Finally, though, he stood, looking at his shadow cast by the bright morning light seeping into the window. He looked at his hands. They were pale. He patted himself. Nothing else seemed hurt. His clothes... white... silky... dirty.
Bronwe.
Yes, now he knew. Bronwe... was his name... or at least he thought it was. Since it was the only thing he could remember at all... except the fire... he decided he would call himself that until he could remember his real name. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly across the room, feeling light and fuzzy. Perhaps it was just the sunlight streaming into his eyes, or his aching head- he did not know.
As he took a step towards the door, he was suprised to see it fling open. A woman, about his size, and very beautiful, stood in the doorway. She had hair like fire... and eyes like grass. Bronwe blinked very slowly. She was stunned for a moment, but after that she gently took his hand and sat him back down on the bed.
"Now, now," she said, pushing him gently back, "you can't get up yet, lad. You have to stay here, until we get you a doctor."
Bronwe took another deep breath. "What happened to me?"
----------
Elanor smiled. Finally, he had woken up! It had to be near midmorning now, though.
"I found you with a cut on your head," she said. Then, she added quietly, "Don't you remember?" He shook his head slowly. He seemed to be in a daze, never taking his eyes off of her face. "Can you tell me your name, or where you come from?"
Elanor began to notice that he had quite enamoring eyes. They were a dull, saddened blue, like the sky just before night fell and the moon came out. She thought she could see a distant, painful memory, or perhaps many, stir behind his gaze as he stared at her... but finally he managed to say- in the softest voice Elanor could remember- "Bronwe... My name..." he trailed off.
"Your name is Bronwe," Elanor congratulated herself silently for finding out his name. "Bronwe," she repeated, "that is an odd one... That's certainly not any word in the Shire-language."
"Shire?" He seemed so lost, Elanor concluded. Those eyes of his had a mingled look of confusion and ache and loss that they nearly covered his innocent question.
Elanor gulped. "That's where I live, where all us Hobbits live. Middle-Earth, my lad... Don't you know that?"
"Hobbits," he repeated, as if the name were new to him.
"Aye," said Elanor. She looked at him for another moment, and he looked back at her. Both were completely silent with their own thoughts. Elanor was beginning to feel like she had known him, somehow, long ago, before now. Bronwe was feeling the same way. Another moment of staring, and Elanor asked quietly, in almost a whisper...
"Do I know you?"
~TBC~