I do not own lotr or any of the characters that I am portraying poorly. The content of this fanfiction is questionable and should not be viewed by minors. . .or anybody for that matter.
Enjoy.
Chapter Two: Rain Delays and Rosebushes
Frodo could hardly sleep the night before his cousins arrived he was so excited, but in the morning he woke to a darkening sky that held the promise of a delay. He threw off his covers and slipped a robe over his night shirt, splashed his face in cold water, and shuffled out into the kitchen. Bilbo was at the table eating breakfast.
He looked up. "Frodo, my boy! Good morning!"
"Is it?" He croaked grumpily. "Have you looked out the window?"
"I was hoping it wasn't going to rain today-Although, Hamfast is probably thrilled," he added. "I should tell him to get along home soon, before the weather starts up. It's going to be a big one."
Indeed, Frodo thought. The clouds looked like they were about ready to make good on their promise at any minute. And if today was like any other day, the old gardener would be toiling away somewhere in the garden and, odds were, Sam was with him.
"I'll go warn them," Frodo mumbled.
"Have a bite first. The weather should hold up for a few minutes." Bilbo motioned for Frodo to sit. He piled his plate with bacon and eggs, but didn't squander time enjoying them. He wolfed them down and left his plate on the table.
-0-
Frodo found Sam elbow deep in a tangled patch of rosebushes. His back was to Frodo and he was crouched low, but Frodo could see the cords in his neck were strained. His hair was flustered by sudden blasts of wind and Frodo could hear him muttering to himself. He looked a mess!
"Sam," Frodo started, but then he saw the cause for all Sam's frustration. "Sam, you're caught!"
Sam had jumped at Frodo's voice and turned his face, flushed red with aggravation and a sudden embarrassment, but that was as far as he could move. His arm, elbow deep, was inexplicably lost in the tangle of thorns.
"I-I can't move it," he said, shuddering a bit.
"Do you need some help?" Frodo asked. He moved closer and took Sam's forearm, ready to help him pull it out.
"No!" Sam bellowed. Frodo jumped back to shock. Never, not once, had he ever heard Sam raise his voice. Not to anyone. And certainly not to him. But then, glancing down at Sam's face, he saw tears start to pour out. His face was contorted in a grimace. "M-Mr. Frodo sir," Sam finally added, his voice shaking. "I'm so s-sorry. My arm's caught in the thorns."
Frodo cursed himself for a fool. "No Sam. It's alright. That was stupid of me. How's it caught?"
"I think I can feel three thorns poking into me," Sam grunted. "They-they're in me skin."
A wave of nausea swept over Frodo. "Alright. Here is what I am going to do. I'm going to go get the hedge clippers and cut you out. Are you alright to wait here alone."
Sam nodded, but his face suddenly blanched.
And like that, Frodo was off to the shed, running for the first time in a very, very long time. He reached it panting, but he knew he couldn't stop here. Sam had looked like he was about to pass out.
He grabbed the hedge clippers off the wall and tore back down the path, leaving the shed door hanging wide open. And as he ran, a funny thought occurred to him that Bilbo would be very irate if he found that Frodo was still running with scissors.
He had almost reached the spot where Sam waited when he was ambushed by a sudden sensation-an all too familiar sensation. It washed over him in a moment and all he could think was, "No! Not now! Please not now!" In panic, he felt his throat become tighter and his lungs began to burn. There was nothing he could do, but come to a skidding halt, drop the clippers, double over, and gasp for breath as the whole world crashed down upon his chest.
Oh! His throat seemed to have shrunk! He would suck in air-well, more like gasp it in-but he couldn't push it back out. His lungs were a pair of balloons that just kept filling. How long until they popped?
He didn't know how long he spent slumped in the grass-or was he even aware of when he came to slump in the grass. Every second was an eternity. Every breath was his last.
Breath! Breath! Sam. Breath! Breath! Breath! Sam.
Sam's face entered Frodo's mind. He looked as Frodo had left him: the usual glow in his cheeks gone and replaced by a sickly hue, his face twisted in pain. The Image drew him back, away from the cliff's edge. Somehow-somehow-Frodo willed himself to be calm. And slowly, ever so slowly, his breathing became easier and easier.
Finally, he found the strength to sit up. He was shaking like a leaf, but it was over. With shaking hands, he swiped the hot tears from his face and retrieved the clippers, thanking Valar that he had been delivered. As his episodes went, that one had been easy. It could have gone a whole lot worse.
He had no time to dwell, though. Sam was waiting. But this time, Frodo made sure to keep his pace slow.
He found Sam just how he had left him and wasted no time.
"Sam, are you still alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine," he answered faintly.
"I'm going to cut you out now, alright? I have the hedge clippers right here." Though Frodo declined to mention that he had never handled hedge clippers in his life.
He waited for Sam to give some kind answer to show that he had heard (and was not slowly passing out by the minute), which came in the form of a clumsy nod. Frodo set the clippers to the thickest part of the plant and snipped, but instantly regretted it. It caused quite a disturbance as it fell and the thorns cut Frodo on the knuckles. He winced, but that wasn't the worst part. Sam gave a weak holler as his arm suddenly popped loose. He flailed back and tumbled onto his bum. It had caused the thorns, jabbed into his arm, to also drag across his skin. Sam's forearm was marred and bleeding.
For the second time that day Frodo cursed himself for a fool.
Sam clutched at his arm as if trying to hold the blood in. His toes were curled into the grass.
Frodo fumbled for an apology. "Sam, I'm sorry! Here, let me help you up-there, you go. Can you stand?"
For a moment, Sam seemed to sway on his feet, but he recovered himself. Slowly, he removed his hand.
"Oh," he said, looking his forearm over. And then all of a sudden…he was back to normal Samwise. "T'was not as bad as I thought. Well, there I go getting me all worked up over nothing."
"Nothing!" Frodo exclaimed, nearly shouting. "You are bleeding all over!" He felt a bit faint just at the sight of it. Surely Sam could see how horrible the gashes were!
"It just looks bad at first. The thorns weren't as deep as I thought. They're nothing but scratches."
Frodo certainly felt faint now. He was not very accustomed to the sight of blood, spending most of his time indoors with Bilbo, his days consumed by intellectual pursuits. In the meantime, Sam was out in the garden, getting scratches and splinters and dirt in his scraped knees.
Then Frodo realized that Sam had been talking to him. "...Crying shame it is."
"What was that?" He mumbled, his tongue going dry.
"Beggin' yer parden, sir," he answered, his face flushing with some of his old color. "I was just going on that it's a shame about the rosebush."
"Oh, Sam." Frodo shook his head, but couldn't fight off the small smile once it had crept onto his lips. He glanced over to see the hole in the shrubbery that Sam was so disappointedly inspecting.
"Mr. Frodo, ye look dreadfully pale."
"Let us get you inside before you bleed out too much." And cause me to tip over.
"Oh, don't let me be a burden. Run home awful quick, I can."
"Nonsense. I won't have you running off with cuts like those. You come inside and get washed up."
Sam didn't argue. With that, they hurried to the smial and just in time, it seemed. Just as they reached the back door, the clouds finally let loose. It all came pouring down without any warning and it was heavy and drenching and thunderously loud. They were both a bit wet before they could stumbled in over the threshold. Frodo swung the door shut and the clattering rain became a distant roar.
"Bilbo! We're in!" called Frodo.
When Bilbo replied, his voice came from the study. "Alright!" he answered, not paying any mind to the 'we're in'. Frodo knew his cousin well enough. Bilbo was probably sunk right in to a elvish translation or was pouring over an old map. More importantly, Frodo knew that Bilbo didn't mind Samwise. Quite the opposite. It had been eleven years now since they had first run into each other and in that time, Bilbo had taught Sam his letters. He wouldn't mind it at all if Sam, now officially a tween of twenty, were to come in to the smial.
"Oh dear!" Sam exclaimed. "I'm bleeding on yer rug. Oh, I'm sorry."
Frodo knew that Sam wouldn't feel welcome to go to the wash basin without being invited. He tugged on his torn sleeve and led Sam down the hall to the bathroom.
"Just out of curiosity," began Frodo, as Sam dipped his arm slowly into the freshly poured water. "How did you even come to be stuck like that? Where was Hamfast?"
Sam sucked in a breath as he began to wash away the blood. He kept his head down. "We was finished for the day and with the storm coming on…He'd gone home. I stayed to put everything away and do a once-over, but then I passed that bush and I thought I saw something and I reached in to get it, but…well, ye know the rest." He winced and withdrew his arm from the water. "See, Mr. Frodo. None too scary with all the blood washed away-not to say that ye were scared or nothin'. But see, nothin' but scratches."
Frodo had to admit, they looked a lot less frightening when all the blood was gone. "Do you want a towel?"
"No, no. I couldn't ask to bleed over one of yer nice white linens. T'would not be right."
"I don't see why it should matter if you are the one that washes them-here, take it."
Sam grudgingly accepted the towel. "Yer too good, sir. Me Gaffer thinks I've too much cheek as is."
"Be as cheeky as you want, my friend," Frodo replied. "Your Gaffer isn't here."
"You." Sam pointed an accusing finger. "yer nothin' but a bad influence." He cocked a grin out of the corner of his face, but it instantly faltered. He sputtered and went bright red. "Oh save me! I don't know why I said that, Mr. Frodo!"
But Frodo wasn't abashed at all by Sam's boldness. On the contrary. He was laughing. "Oh Sam! It's alright! It seems I am a bad influence on you after all."
"Mercy."
Frodo's shoulders were still jittering with laughter. "How is your arm looking?" he asked politely.
Sam lifted the towel and cringed upon seeing it stained red. "The cuts look alright, I suppose. Bleeding's almost stopped now."
"That's good," Frodo sighed, leaning absent-mindedly against the wall. He could see out the window. It was coming down outside as if it had never rained before and planned never to rain again.
Sam peeked up. "Weather got ye down, Mr. Frodo?"
"Huh?" Frodo's eyes snapped away from the window. "Oh…yes. I was expecting some of my cousins today. They're going to be staying for a few weeks, over Yule, you know. Back at Brandy Hall, they were the closest to my age and we sort of ran together when we were younger. That was before-before I moved to Brandy Hall, mind." Sam glanced up, but Frodo's face was perfectly calm. "Remidoc, Aron, Darec, and Merry. Well, you wouldn't know them, of course, but-have I told you this before?"
Sam shrugged noncommittally, but there was a small, poorly restrained smile upon his face. "Maybe once or twice," he answered at length.
"So three, four, five times? You are just being kind to a very repetitive hobbit."
"Oh, ye know how forgetful I am, sir. Take's a bit more to knock something into this ninnyhammer skull of mine."
Frodo didn't know what to say to that. Sam was the most organized, attentive hobbit he knew!
"But honest," Sam continued before Frodo could completely contradict him. "It couldn't have been more than twice." Frodo let it go.
The grayness outside had deepened even more by the time Sam had proclaimed his arm to be completely clean. It had taken longer than they had thought to get the bleeding to stop. Frodo still held by that, though they were only scratches, they were still some of the nastiest scratches he had seen in a long time.
"Well, if there's nothing ye need me to do, I won't trouble ye no more," Sam said.
"Sam, no. You can wait out the storm at least. I won't send you out in that."
"That's mighty fine of you, sir, but I feel I've troubled you enough and my Gaffer will be wonderin'."
"Well, alright then," Frodo sighed. He showed Sam to the door, but the second he cracked it open there was a great roar that made talking impossible. Lightning lit up the sky.
Sam hesitated at the door and then jumped as the thunder followed. Frodo pushed the door shut again, which was surprisingly difficult.
"Sam," Frodo said, once he could hear again. "Stay for a bit. Please. Just until it stops raining so hard."
"Oh sir. Ye have company yer expecting."
"I wouldn't feel comfortable sending you out in that," Frodo said for the second time that day. "Please, Sam. For me." Well, Sam couldn't argue with that.
They chatted for a while, entertaining each other, though Frodo was one to speak more in a conversation and Sam tended to be the listener (but a happy and attentive one at that). Slowly, the morning passed to noontime and the rain had not yet let up a bit. Frodo had doubted that his cousins would be able to arrive today from the moment he woke up that morning, but now he was sure; Sam would be his only company for the day. That wasn't a bad thing at all, but he had so looked forward to seeing some of his old playmates. They hadn't visited in two years now. Frodo wondered if they would look any different.
Remidoc was a couple years older than Frodo and had come of age the previous year. Frodo was sorry to have missed that bash, but he had been bedridden at the time. Aron and Darec were brothers. Aron was Frodo's age and Darec was only a year younger. Those two were quite the pair, if Frodo's memory served him well; they were always fighting, always competing like strapping lads ought to. Frodo had always felt a bit mouse-ish around them, but so many of his wonderful childhood memories were attached to those two and their rather daring (and boarder-line, in Frodo's opinion) shenanigans. Then there was Merry who was the youngest, younger than Frodo by ten years. In some ways, he reminded him of Sam. He had always followed them about like a baby brother, always pushing to keep up, and stars in his youthful eyes. But in other ways, he was very much unlike Sam. For one thing, he was far, far more mischievous and completely unashamed.
He and Sam ate lunch and Bilbo came out to join them, greeting Sam without a hint of surprise or a question as to what he was still doing there. Though, he did ask about Sam's arm. Once Bilbo had gotten the whole story, he found it a bit funny just like Sam had, but Frodo still held by that those cuts were no laughing matter.
Or perhaps it wasn't the cuts that weighed on Frodo's mind. Perhaps it was the other thing.
They finished their meal and Sam stayed to wash the dishes. Frodo saw his chance. He broke off their conversation as politely as he could and went to find Bilbo in the study once again.
He knocked on the open door.
"Well, Hello Frodo," he greeted.
"I was hoping I could talk to you about something."
"Is something the matter?" Bilbo asked as he shut the book he had been reading and shuffled some papers into place. "Here, sit down."
Frodo did, but not before shutting the door behind him. He went and sunk into the crimson armchair.
"What's troubling you?"
"I'm afraid, uncle," Frodo began. "It happened again today, a few hours ago when I was outside. I had another episode."
"Oh dear," Bilbo sighed, his whole frame visibly sagging. For a moment he looked his age. "It's been a while. When was your last one?"
"A year ago, I think."
"I had hoped they had ended for good. What happened? What were you doing when it happened? Were you upset at all?"
"I was running."
"Well, that's what did it, Frodo. I've warned you about exerting yourself too much," he chastised. Then his voice softened. "How do you feel?"
"I feel alright now...really, I feel fine." Frodo added as he caught Bilbo's questioning look.
"And you were alone too," Bilbo said, shaking his head. "Oh, Frodo, that's not good. That's not good at all. You know very well what could have happened."
"I know," Frodo said soberly. "But I'm fine now. I promise I'm alright. Perhaps I was a bit shaken up, but I'm fine now."
"I'll take you to see Doctor Puddifoot. What time would you be ready to leave?"
Frodo stared at him incredulously and then began stammering. "Wait. We can't go out now-Uncle, you're not listening. I said I felt fine."
"Frodo, I'm sure your cousins won't be arriving in this weather."
"They might," he argued, but his tone was doubtful. "And Sam's here."
"I can send Samwise home," Bilbo offered, but to Frodo it sounded like a threat-sending off the one happy distraction he had had all day.
"Have you been outside today?" Frodo's tone betrayed annoyance. "You can't see ten feet in front of you! How could I send Sam home in that? And it doesn't matter if Sam could get home, because we would never make it to the Doctor anyways. I would wait until it lets up, but it has only gotten worse."
"Now don't you take that tone with me," Bilbo scolded, shaking a pen at him.
Frodo realized now that he was leaning forward in his chair, his hands gripping the arms, though he did not remember at what point in their conversation he had moved. He felt a frustrated blush rise on his cheeks as he realized how angrily he had been speaking as well. Oh, but Bilbo wasn't listening!
"My apologies," He muttered, falling back into the chair.
"I suppose I would have to make an appointment anyways," Bilbo said thoughtfully. His voice was gentle again. "Doctor Puddifoot doesn't take walk-ins unless it's an emergency."
Frodo sighed as the tension ebbed from the room. And then he jumped.
Was that a knock at the door I just heard?
"Was that the door?" asked Bilbo, confirming that Frodo was indeed not suffering from an air deprivation induced hallucination.
Frodo jumped up, a look of wonder on his face, saying, "Well, I can't keep them waiting in the rain, can I?"
"Frodo, wait," Bilbo said. His forehead wrinkled in concern and he seemed to be grappling with what to say. Finally, he just gave a sigh and asked, "Are you alright?"
"Uncle-," Frodo started, but there was another rap on the door, louder and more urgent this time. "I'll see Puddifoot this week sometime." But Frodo knew that wasn't what Bilbo was asking. "I'm just a bit shaken," he gave. "That's all."
Then, without waiting for his Uncle's answer, he bounded out of the room and down the hall. There was nothing that could ruin this visit. Not even a relapse. He looked down the hall and saw is cousins tumble on in like sacks of flour (very, very wet flour) and he felt like he was returning to a happy, childish world. He forgot all his troubles in a second.