Chapter 3 Visions in the Night
Author's Note: Please forgive the delay in posting this next chapter: I plan to edit the previous two for clarity.
Alisa picked at her food, once again stealing a glance at him. It was clear that he did not want to be here, yet once again Bilbo had prevailed and somehow gotten him to join them for dinner. Whatever they were discussing, it was obvious the were not in agreement, yet she could sense the respect Frodo had for his adopted uncle. Even more troubling was the way Frodo had looked at her earlier when standing in line with Bilbo. As if he was terrified of her. Even now she noted the tension in his shoulders, her study abruptly interrupted when Bilbo nodded to her from across the crowded room. Quickly lifting her mug and glancing at Galadriel, she hoped Bilbo had not taken note of her interest in his nephew. Though she loved Bilbo, he was not the most tactful hobbit. Taking a quick sip of her tea, she told herself she was being silly. Even if Bilbo had noticed, surely he would never embarrass both of them by mentioning it to Frodo...or would he?
Don't be so self centered, her conscience scolded. One quick glance around her told her that neither he nor Frodo thought of her, so crowded was the dining room with every eye riveted to the two hobbits. Conversations were more muted than usual, and many an eye flitted toward Frodo with a mixture of fascination and concern. They were being discrete about it, but the other diners waited expectantly for some reaction from them. She felt the weight of anticipation quite and heard it in the hush of the room.
I'm no better than the others, she thought, watching and waiting for Frodo to break down. They expected it, waited for it. Even Bilbo's presence and easygoing nature could not ease their worries. After all, Frodo had only lately come into renown, yet through great suffering. And unlike Bilbo, he did not flourish as an object of their attention, but rather avoided it. And that made him even more mysterious and fascinating.
She watched the hobbits finish passing down the line, turn and head for two vacant seats which were at the opposite end of the room. Frodo sat quickly, his left side to her as he kept his eyes on Bilbo. Her eyes followed the movement of his hand as he toyed with the food on his plate, eating little yet quickly draining his mug. It was Bilbo who partook of the excellent meal and carried the conversation between them. At one point Bilbo rose for a second helping of potatoes, leaving Frodo alone to lay aside his fork and wait for his return. To keep up the pretense of dining, she jabbed a piece of broccoli with her fork and stuffed it into her mouth at the precise moment when he suddenly turned his head and looked directly at her.
His startling blue eyes locked with hers and caused her heart to skip a beat. Knowing she was blushing, she could not look away even when his brow lifted with interest. Feeling warm all over, she held his gaze, startled by its power over her. No one had ever affected her in this way, both drawing her and frightening her at the same time. He slowly lifted a hand and rested his chin upon it, his eyes traveling slowly over her features as the brow returned to its position. Then Bilbo walked between them and took his place once again, breaking the contact. To her surprise Bilbo glanced over at her and smiled mischievously, never stopping his one sided discussion with Frodo. Even more embarrassed, she looked away and stabbed a carrot, studying it with sudden and pretended interest. Furiously chewing the broccoli, she finally swallowed it and lifted the carrot, daring to glance back toward them.
Frodo had half turned toward Gandalf as the wizard came to their table and accepted a chair being vacated by an elf she did not know. As Gandalf sat down next to Frodo those at the neighboring tables turned and pulled their chairs closer, crowding around the three with sudden interest. She watched Frodo nod in greeting to each as he was introduced, though something in his manner told her that he longed to slip away. A young couple approached him, bowed and spoke briefly with him, earning a wan smile as he listened patiently. He answered briefly and met Gandalf's perusal, looking to another who leaned toward him. As the hour lengthened and only those seated demanded his attention, Frodo leaned back in his chair and appeared to settle more comfortably into the after dinner conversation. From time to time he raised his good hand to the back of his neck, massaging it without much enthusiasm. The other, she noted, remained hidden in his pocket the entire evening.
How many times had they placed poultices to that wound in an attempt to draw out the poison? For days she and the other healers had labored over him as he hung between life and death. It had been Aragorn who had first summoned her to stitch it closed, a simple act that had drawn her irrevocably into the fight to save his life. The memory of her first glimpse of it still caused something in the pit of her stomach to plummet. Bite marks, she remembered with a shudder, and they did not only surround his finger. He had been bitten many times and carried countless other wounds, some which she had tended, others not. Though it had been three years since then she could see that he had still not fully recovered. His suffering was evident in the stiff tension of his posture and expression, and he had not regained much of the weight he had lost. In the bright light of the dining hall he looked pale. But that was why he was here, she reminded herself.
Someone proposed a toast and Frodo tensed, shaking his head to decline. When those around his table protested he looked to Bilbo, then to Gandalf for help. But Gandalf only smiled sadly, his eyes holding Frodo's. When Bilbo stood up and laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder she smiled, watching him bow and lift his mug to begin. Shifting her attention back to Frodo, she saw the relief in his eyes as he leaned back once again in his chair, cradling his mug in his good hand.
"…taking a moment to digest this most excellent dinner," Bilbo was saying as she settled back in her chair as well. Glancing at Galadriel, she let her take her hand and felt her squeeze it affectionately.
"My nephew and I wish to thank all of you for inviting us along," Bilbo declared, "and we look forward to many hours in your wonderful company, not to mention the finest wine and food this side of the Shire--"
There was a hearty round of laughter and cheering before Bilbo took over once again, deflecting their attention away from Frodo as he continued. His nephew averted his eyes and therfore missed the frown of worry that creased Gandalf's face. Alisa held her breath, fearing that Frodo would get up and leave. But instead she saw a faint smile lift his lips at something Bilbo related, causing her to concentrate on what Bilbo was saying.
"For you see my nephew and I, hobbits in the truest sense of the word, have found ourselves pleasantly outdone from your hospitality," he said with a slight bow. "Even a bit lethargic, so rich was your fare," he added with a grin and a squeeze to Frodo's shoulder. To her surprise Frodo looked up and nodded, stifling a yawn which made everyone laugh. "So in a feeble attempt to tell some of you what will become a bedtime story for some," Bilbo chuckled good naturedly, "I would like the chance, if you will indulge me, to share a little story about the time our hobbit home was similarly crowded, not with elves but with a small company of dwarves..."
Animated applause shot around the room as Bilbo smiled with pleasure, launching into the well known account of his travels with the dwarves to steal the dragon's treasure. He began to stroll leisurely around the room, laying a hand here or an affectionate slap there as he wove their interest into a bond of legend none wished to escape. From time to time he glanced toward Frodo, all the while moving farther from him. Careful to keep her eye on Frodo, she was one of only a few who noticed when he slipped from his seat and left the room. The tale moved onto the journey toward Iron Mountain and even those who noticed settled back to listening once again.
Where could he be going? she wondered, amazed at how expertly both hobbits had worked together without much notice. Glancing to her side, she met Galadriel's gaze as she leaned toward her.
"He managed that more easily than I expected," Galadriel whispered, smiling at Bilbo's latest comment. "Don't worry about him."
"But he seems so troubled," she whispered back, "desperate, in fact."
Galadriel squeezed her hand. "He's very strong, beneath all that emotion."
Alisa shook her head, her eyes scanning the faces in the room. "Everyone expects him to be like his uncle," she protested.
"Give them time to get to know him."
Alisa sighed, wanting to go to Frodo yet knowing he would prefer to be alone. "Bilbo did well to shift the attention to himself."
Galadriel nodded. "He will always protect Frodo, if he can."
She took a moment to study Bilbo. "Do you think he really understands him, though?"
Galadriel looked thoughtful. "They are very different."
Alisa leaned closer. "I would like your leave to go to him," she whispered. "Frodo needs a good listener."
Galadriel drew back to study her a moment, her expression intent. "He needs much more than that," she answered. "And you desire to help him."
Beginning to blush, Alisa nodded. "There's just something about him," she admitted, "…my heart goes out to him."
"You must guard your heart," Galadriel advised. "At least for now."
They fell silent, returning their attention to Bilbo. He was speaking of his hiding in an apple barrel to escape the jail, and after a moment Galadriel leaned back toward her, her eyes on Bilbo. "Frodo will be very good for you, when he has healed."
Alisa stared at her a moment. "I thought you disapproved!" she whispered.
"Not at all," Galadriel answered, looking at her. "In fact, I intend to speak to Bilbo about it, when the time is right."
Alisa slid her hand along her arm, leaning against her and finally beginning to relax.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Frodo paused to inhale the cold, salty air. Spacing his feet far enough apart to find his balance, he lifted his eyes heavenward and gazed at the black sky. The wind whipped his gray elven cloak around him like a small sail as he stood there in thanksgiving for escaping the crowd below. Thanks to Bilbo, no one seemed to have noticed his departure, and he made a note to thank him when he next saw his uncle. Turning to grasp the railing, he slid his good hand along it and headed toward the bow of the ship, pulling himself along against the pitching of the ship. When he found a secluded spot he faced the ocean and gripped the rail, leaning over to gaze down at the swells and measuring them to be about his height. The wind blew steadily against him, spraying him with a fine mist he relished after the warm confinement of the dining hall. Glad that he had eaten only a bit of the food Bilbo piled upon his plate, he swallowed to settle his stomach against the dip and rise of the ship.
They were cutting a northwesterly channel through the turbulent waters, heading into a thick mountain of dark clouds riding the unsteady horizon. Off in the distance he spied sheets of rain pelting the surface of the water, only to be cut off and reappear farther along their route. Focusing upon the dark horizon, he caught a flash of lightning but heard no thunder. Strangely comforted by the angry threat of the storm, he soon became accustomed to the swaying of the deck beneath his feet. But he did not notice how the spray plastered his hear to his head, so completely did he feel part of the darkness surrounding him.
It wasn't long before the voice came to him once again, against which he set his jaw determinedly. Concentrating upon the direction in which they sailed, he resisted the taunting whispers hovering around the edges of his mind. When a slap of spray struck his forehead he turned toward it in acceptance, thankful for both its punishment and cleansing. But when it continued and started to master him, he cried out silently for the forgiveness he never found. Struggling with the relentless guilt which had plagued him since his failure at Mount Doom, he prayed in the only manner he knew, groaning for mercy despite a strengthening in the malevolent presence gripping him with its invisible hold. It pressed its weight upon his shoulders, then crushed his back, bending him over the railing. Gasping for breath, he claimed the deliverance he so desperately sought. Closing his eyes, he nearly gave up the struggle when suddenly it happened again--the rush of wind that blew as if from heaven, forcing away the evil presence. He gasped and straightened, noting how suddenly it left him. Knowing what would happen next, he closed his eyes and waited.
Frodo found himself transported to another time and place, this time a garden. He could feel the warmth of the sun touching him and bathing him with peace. Deep within his soul the turmoil ceased, leaving him to feel the warmth spreading through his chest as clearly as if it had been planted there by an unseen hand. Closing his eyes in gratitude, he heard the soft hum of Sam's tuneless voice as he worked the vegetable garden at Bag End. Emotion choked him with joy as he realized he was back in the Shire, close to the presence of his friend once again. He could hear Sam digging and muttering something about turnips. He could smell the freshly turned earth and see Sam bending over the garden, his broad back stretching his once white shirt to its limit. Shaking his head with disbelief, Frodo opened his eyes and saw Sam shove aside mounds of earth, flinging an occasional weed behind him without care of where it landed.
"It's got to be in here somewheres," Sam muttered under his breath, making Frodo gasp with laughter.
You're always losing something, Sam, he thought fondly. What is it this time? Your key? Your comb?
He could hear Sam's soft panting as he worked, and then the lilting tune of Rosie's voice interrupted, called his friend's name. Gripping the wet railing, Frodo's vision clouded as baby Eleanor's delightful giggle burst forth, sounding more like an echo.
"No!" he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut to hold onto the vision. He shivered with the cold and shook his head, longing for the comfort and familiarity of Bag End once again. This time the yearning was so strong that he trembled. The crash of the waves filled his ears as he returned to the present, struck by the realization that he had envied Sam. Though he loved him like a brother, he found himself suddenly consumed with dark envy for Sam's carefree and forgiving nature, knowing full well that although Sam had carried the ring of power it had not touched him with its evil. Sam had somehow escaped its grip, but he had not. Gritting his jaw in anger, he murmured a breathless curse for his own fate.
Appalled at the direction of his thoughts, Frodo raised a hand to his throat and faced his sins, unable to deny them. He envied Sam's life, his easy friendships with other hobbits, his love affair with Rosie and his blessing of becoming a father. Sam had found love and fulfillment, something Frodo had been denied. Fisting his hands, he wrestled with anger and resentment, shaking his head even as he felt the dark emotions grip him.
"...forgive me!" he gasped, bowing his head, "bless them, and prosper them!" he pleaded, fear and guilt overtaking him. But his confession brought no relief, and leaning his elbows upon the railing he buried his face in his hands.
