IMPORTANT. I HAVE RECENTLY RE-EDITED CHAPTERS 1-9 OF THIS STORY.
When I began writing this story, I really had only a vague idea of where I wanted it to go. I now have a clearer idea of the plot's direction, and my inspiration for it has slowly come back. I do intend on finishing it. I am so sorry for the long wait for this update.
However, as it is an earlier work of mine, the writing is no longer up to my current expectations. I've since gone back and done some editing in the previous chapters, so that the level of writing matches that of new chapters I will upload. I have NOT changed major plot points, but I have tweaked some dialogue and interactions, as well as replaced dialogue that sounded far too modern. (Though there is one unimportant scene I did cut out, as I felt it did nothing for the story and only hindered the pacing)
Once again, ALL OF CHAPTERS 1-9 HAVE UNDERGONE EDITING. I only do this because it is an older story, and if I continue it, I want the quality to be consistent throughout.
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Frodo's headache had come back with a vengeance. His skull felt as though it were splitting in two, his still-healing wound throbbing in agony with each jolt of the horse he sat on. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to hold back the nausea bubbling within him.
Bilbo must have noticed his absence by now. And when he had realized something had happened to Frodo, he would get help. He would fetch…who? Saradoc and his other uncles? What could they possibly do? They knew nothing of tracking, of hunting down dangerous men.
Who could possibly find him?
"Got 'im, did you?"
Frodo opened his eyes at the sound of the familiar voice. They had moved on from the grove a while ago and had entered the large wood bordering the edge of Buckland Market. Frodo could see no end to the trees, nor hear the din of Market, so he knew that they were much too far for shouting to be of any use. Not that he currently could anyway, with the disgusting gag tied around his mouth.
Standing next to a large tree, and looking more timid than Frodo remembered, was the merchant who had accused Frodo of stealing Strider's clasp.
"You!" Frodo exclaimed. But the sound, hindered by the dirty cloth, came out more as a muffled gurgle.
Leofryn ignored the accusing shout and straightened, trying to appear casual. Yet he was careful to keep a few meters between himself and the horse, the trepidation in his eyes as he watched Frodo's captor betraying his unease.
"Bjorn," Leofryn greeted warily. He glanced at Frodo. "Did he have the clasp?"
Bjorn grunted. "Not a particularly impressive thing. But it is of the northern Rangers – that alone gives it its worth."
"And the halfling?"
The man shifted his hold on Frodo. "He has his part to play."
Leofryn nodded. "So we're done?" He hesitated, then held out his hand. "My payment, then?"
Bjorn eyed Leofryn in disgust. He reached down, as though about to grab a small bag strapped to the side of his horse. But then, his movements quick, he drew a thin knife from behind the bag and raised it. Leofryn barely had time to open his mouth in protest before the knife was sailing through the air. It embedded itself deep into the merchant's chest with a sickening wet thud.
Leofryn gave a soft gasp, then collapsed.
Frodo make a horrified sound behind his gag, struggling to hold back the bile in his throat. Bjorn dismounted the horse and, completely unconcerned, went to Leofryn's still-twitching body and wrenched the knife free. He wiped the blade clean, looking pointedly at Frodo.
"I will have no qualms harming you, if you make this journey difficult," he said, his voice low with warning. "I hope now you understand this."
Eyes wide, Frodo shrunk back as Bjorn stalked towards him. He ripped the gag from Frodo's mouth and brought the knife up to the hobbit's pale throat.
"Now tell me true," snarled Bjorn. "Where did you get that clasp?"
Pain thudded against the walls of Frodo's skull as he stared at the man. He licked his lips, willing his tongue to work.
Bjorn pressed the blade harder against Frodo's skin. A thin line of red trickled down the hobbit's neck, and Frodo bit back a whimper.
"Well?"
Frodo swallowed. "A Ranger gave it to me," he said shakily. "As a token of friendship."
Bjorn scoffed. "Did he now? Well then," he grabbed a handful of Frodo's hair, yanking the hobbit's head towards him. "You must have a name to give."
The air dripped with tense silence. Frodo pressed his lips together, unwilling to answer.
Frustrated anger flashed across Bjorn's face. Wrenching the knife away, Bjorn released his hold on the dark curls. With a growl he struck the young hobbit across his face.
Frodo's vision blackened momentarily, and he gasped at the agony that shot through his wound. A groan slipped past his lips as he slumped over the saddle, struggling to keep himself on the horse.
"Give me a name, halfling," ordered Bjorn. "And no lies. Or you'll wish I had disposed of you as easily as I had that fool merchant."
Frodo shook his head faintly, flinching at the pain the movement caused.
Bjorn snarled and brought up the knife, slicing the rope tying Frodo's bound hands to the saddle. He dragged Frodo from the horse and shoved him to the ground, knocking the breath from the hobbit. Bjorn placed his boot on Frodo's heaving chest, applying his weight mercilessly as he leaned over the small form. Frodo choked at the constriction of his chest, struggling vainly against the man's weight.
"I could waste my time beating the truth from you," Bjorn said. "Or you could save yourself unnecessary pain." He paused, watching Frodo's face carefully. "Was it Strider?"
That caught Frodo's attention. Surprise flickered in the hobbit's eyes at the name, though he quickly tried to hide the emotion.
Bjorn grinned triumphantly at the hobbit's poor attempt of indifference. "Excellent." He removed his foot and roughly pulled Frodo up, lifting him back onto the horse. "He will be pleased."
Who would be pleased? Frodo frowned, but before he could say anything, the revolting gag was tied around his mouth once again, without consideration for the bruise darkening on his cheekbone. Bjorn secured Frodo back to the saddle and mounted the horse, resuming his position behind the hobbit. He gave the horse a swift kick in the side, urging it forward.
Entrapped by the man's arms and struggling to stay conscious in spite of the pain of his wound, Frodo could only yank fitfully at the rope restraining him as he was taken further from Buckland.
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They rode in silence for long hours. Twice Frodo had passed out from the pain in his head, slumping against Bjorn's stinking form. Bjorn had successfully revived the hobbit the first time by slapping the pale face repeatedly. But Frodo did not respond for hours after he had fainted the second time and, once he was sure that the hobbit was still alive, Bjorn settled for simply preventing him from tumbling off the horse as they rode.
They did not stop until twilight. Warm rays of light stubbornly clung to the branches of the trees above them, giving Bjorn some light to see by as he pulled the horse to a stop. He undid the rope tying Frodo to the saddle and dismounted, dragging the hobbit's limp form from the seat. Propping Frodo against a tree, Bjorn withdrew a long coil of rope from one of his packs and secured the small body to the tree trunk. Frodo twitched, his eyelids fluttering as his body struggled to regain consciousness.
Bjorn retrieved a water skin from his horse's saddle and drank greedily, watching at the hobbit slowly came to his senses. Frodo blinked and glanced around, frowning in confusion.
"Back amongst the living, then."
Frodo looked up sharply.
Bjorn tapped his finger against the water skin, studying Frodo curiously. "That's quite the wound on your head," he commented. "Is there an interesting story behind it? Or is it simply the result of halfling stupidity?"
Still gagged, Frodo simply glared.
Bjorn smirked. He approached Frodo, reveling in the fearful way the hobbit drew back from him. Kneeling, Bjorn yanked the gag from Frodo's mouth.
Frodo gasped, gratefully sucking fresh air past cracked lips and into his dry throat. He grimaced at the feeling, wishing desperately for the water he had been denied all day.
As though Frodo had spoken the wish aloud, Bjorn lifted the water skin. "Do you want some?"
Frodo eyed the offered item distrustfully.
"Answer me, halfling."
Frodo raised his furious gaze to Bjorn's. "Yes," he whispered, his voice weak and cracked with thirst.
For a moment, it looked as though Bjorn was considering denying Frodo the drink. But he seemed to reconsider and lifted the water skin to Frodo's lips.
The water, though stale, was an utter relief to Frodo. As the liquid was poured down his throat, his headache dimmed somewhat, as did the grogginess that had been hindering him since waking. But the water skin was pulled away all too soon, and Frodo could not help a soft cry of dismay.
Bjorn chuckled mockingly at the sound. Setting the water skin aside, he retied the gag around Frodo's head. "Just in case," he said.
He moved away from Frodo and pulled down another pack from the horse. Drawing out a few pieces of dried meat, Bjorn settled down into the grass and began gnawing at the food, gazing out into the wilderness surrounding them with a critical eye.
Frodo watched the man eat longingly. His stomach rumbled loudly, to his embarrassment, catching Bjorn's attention.
"Fancy a bit of food, little halfling?" He shook his head. "I've given you water, and that's enough. That kick you gave me earlier cost you supper. Maybe in the morning I'll give you something. Or maybe not." He shrugged. "We only have a few days' travel anyway."
Despair mingled with the hunger in Frodo's stomach. He was expected to spend the night tied to a tree, without anything to eat? The memory of Brandy Hall's lively mealtimes surfaced in his mind, and Frodo suddenly found himself desperately wishing he were back there. He would endure a hundred lectures from Saradoc, if it only meant he could be home again.
Fighting back tears at the thought of his family, Frodo shifted his gaze to the treetops above. Sleep suddenly seemed so very far away.
/
Even in his urgency, it took Bilbo an entire day to return to Hobbiton. Already frantic over Frodo's disappearance, by the time he had burst through Bag End's door to a surprised wizard and Ranger, his wits had nearly been lost to him. They left not long after Bilbo's frantic explanation, with Bilbo riding a fresh pony and Gandalf and Strider on larger horses brought from Hobbiton's market. Even so, hours stretched tortuously, each moment ticking away Frodo's peril in Bilbo's mind as they raced back to Buckland.
By the time they had reached the grove where Frodo had gone missing, it had been over two days since Bilbo had last seen his nephew.
"We have lost so much time already, Gandalf. How can we possibly hope to find him?" His voice weary with despair, Bilbo nudged his pony forward and cast his eyes about the grove hopelessly. The late morning sunlight spilled onto the ground around them, the heat of their rays prompting beads of perspiration to blossom on Bilbo's forehead.
The addressed wizard straightened on the white horse he rode, eyeing the surrounding trees sharply. His grey cloak flowed down the sides of his horse, the color of the faded cloth not all that different from the tangled beard covering Gandalf's chin and draping down his chest. Worn was his appearance, though it did little to diminish the wisdom and warm power radiating from him.
"We will find him, Bilbo," Gandalf said. "Do not despair just yet."
"Here."
Gandalf and Bilbo looked over to the source of the soft voice. Strider knelt amongst the shrubbery of the grove, his hand tracing the outline of an indentation in the ground. Bilbo strained forward in his saddle, struggling to discern what it was.
"Hoofprints," said Strider, indicating. "They can't be more than a few days old. Same as the hobbit prints we found back there." He frowned. "There are other prints as well. A hobbit's without doubt, and a smaller set. Human. Adult male, if I not mistaken." He glanced at Bilbo. "The prints are not clean; there was a struggle."
Bilbo paled.
Strider stood, his expression hardening. "Frodo did not leave this grove of his own will, that much is certain." He reached for his horse's reins and tugged the animal close. "We have lost precious time." He started off into the deeper part of the grove, heading in the direction of the vast woods bordering Buckland Market. "We must move quickly."
Bilbo exchanged a worried look with Gandalf. The wizard set his mouth grimly and followed Strider, Bilbo close behind.