"Chapter 13"

It felt absolutely heavenly to be able to soak in the bathing chambers in Erebor. Still a simple hobbit, Bilbo felt such a relief to shed his dirty, stinking clothes and let the hot water fill his head with laziness. It was such a wonderful feeling he almost sank below the water like a boneless fish; but he knew that that wouldn't be proper in a bath, so he regretfully pulled away from that train of thought and instead focused on his nephew.

It had taken awhile to convince Frodo that the in-ground pool that served as a bath tub was perfectly safe. Bilbo knew that the young hobbit had not yet lost his natural mistrust of water that had developed after his parents' drowning, and perhaps never would; but his nephew had cautiously and critically eyed the water before him with a look that fairly screamed too deep, and when he did manage to step into it he refused to leave the bottom step that led into the pool. Bilbo decided that it wasn't worth fighting over and allowed Frodo to stay where he was, trying to maintain a steady stream of mindless, comforting chatter that to him seemed to fall muted into the abyss of his nephew's silence—although he was able to at least draw a smile from the lad when he told him lightly to "wash behind his ears". Such an utterance was very familiar in Bag End as an inside-joke after one day Frodo had become so dirty while out walking that every inch of his normally-pale skin was brown with dirt—including behind his ears.

"I possess no small amount of curiosity to know how you managed that," Bilbo told him now. "I have never heard of any Baggins becoming so dirty—it must be because of that dratted Tookish blood!"

He laughed fully when he saw Frodo's expression clearing saying he was proud of that. Tookish blood indeed!

When it came to cleaning his nephew's still-tender back, however, he quickly sobered again. The whiplashes had started to scab over and heal, but they were still deep and at times painful. Some of the deeper ones still bled, and so it was with the utmost care that Bilbo scrubbed the dried blood away. For the first time since he had finally found him, Bilbo was able to see every hurt that had been done to his lad, and it made him near-mad with fury. Frodo was still too thin to his eyes, the faint outline of his ribs saying that he had been underfed during his month-long captivity, and the ugly crisscrossing welts that had been etched on his side and stomach had faded to white discolorations.

During the second day after they had left the cave, Bofur had discovered that Frodo walked with a sudden, noticeable limp. When the Dwarf had checked for less obvious markings or scars, he had found a vivid mark that stretched its way down the young hobbit's thigh—when looking at it more carefully, Bofur had realized that a serious muscle had been injured and had scarred over while healing.

"I'm sorry," he had said sadly, "but I don't think that he'll recover full use of that leg again."

So it seemed that his Frodo was to be saddled with a bad leg the rest of his life. Even with what Bofur called "physical therapy", his nephew would never walk without a noticeable limp.

Then there was the blackened scar that ran down in a jagged line below Frodo's left eye, perhaps caused by a knife. Probably the happening of a power play on the ruffians' parts to show that they were utterly in charge.

"Oh, my boy," he sighed now, and he reached out a gentle hand, caught up in the horror of those mementos—

But Frodo had been watching him, and had noticed the way his uncle focused on the marks on his body. It made him uncomfortable and irritated him. He didn't want to be reminded of what had happened, he didn't want sympathy, and he didn't want his uncle to shower him with useless comforts. He didn't ever want to talk about what had happened and he knew that every time his uncle or the other Dwarves would reach for him like Uncle Bilbo was doing now it would be to ask him what had transpired with the ruffians.

He knocked his uncle's fingers away, trying not to shrink away at the perceived contact, but he could not help but flinch all the same. He suddenly felt trapped. He was among friends now, he knew that; but when those friends would undoubtedly try to "fix" him and make him talk about things he had no intentions of sharing—never—it was time that he left. So that was what he did. As soon as Bilbo drew his hand back, looking startled and a little hurt, he drew himself from the edge of the water and as quickly as he could he grabbed his clothes and quickly dried himself off, never minding his back or the fact that rubbing it dry only irritated it more.

"Frodo!" Bilbo exclaimed, worried with his nephew's sudden change in temperament. He stood from the water and, dripping wet, left the bath as well, but he was just too late; even as his bare feet hit dry stone, Frodo looked over his shoulder at him and then was gone, flinging the door open and rushing away as fast as his injured leg would allow him.

"Frodo!"

00000000

Thorin had just finished dressing from his own bath when a loud, insistent banging at his door caught his attention. He very nearly stomped his way over to it like a spoiled child and with a very low growl he grabbed the handle and with the force of a very grumpy bear thrust the door open.

And Bilbo's very frightened face greeted him. The hobbit was dressed in an over-sized shirt and a pair of trousers that they had found for him, but nothing else, and his hair was still wet from his bath. His face was white and he was panting as if he had sprinted a long way.

"Th- Thorin," the hobbit gasped, his voice trembling, "I need your help. Frodo's run off and we can't find him!"