Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay. . .and the brevity of this chapter.
There's a real zinger coming up, though, so I don't feel too guilty. ;)
Let's just say that you'll want to take some deep breaths before reading
the upcoming chapter entitled "Overheard in the Kitchen." ;)
I don't know all the places where it applies, but in the southern mountains where I grew up, the practice described regarding neighbours and post- funeral meals remained traditional until recently, and may still be practiced in some areas. It was the custom for church friends and close neighbours to "bring something" – ostensibly for the practical purpose of helping the immediate family feed all the out-of-town relatives and not have to worry about cooking for themselves to boot. Anything was fine, though usually at least one bucket of fried chicken showed up on the table. . .but homemade items were considered an especially nice gesture. But that's something that seemed to me to fit very well with hobbit practices, somehow. . .and so it's in my story. If people wish, once I get through a few more of my current fics in progress, I might very well take on the story of that time period: the drowning of Frodo's parents and the subsequent events.
Updates: I don't think Yahoo help could GET any slower. Sorry the group isn't yet moved, gang. Curu Ithilin – answer to your question pending, I promise!
As always, thank you all SO VERY much for reading and reviewing! You all are so wonderful: my dear readers, my Silmaril in the darkness. . .thank you all so very much.
For permission to reproduce, please contact frodobaggins@frodo.com
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns.
SHADOWS IN THE DARKNESS
Chapter Seventeen: Old Memories and Apple Pie Thoughts
"What happened, Frodo?"
Gandalf's voice was gentle and calming, and as Frodo felt his sobs beginning to ease a bit, he somehow felt. . .well, safe. . .with the idea of confiding in the wizard. Drawing a tremulous breath, he curled up a bit more in Gandalf's arms.
"I. . .had dreams. . .awful ones, with. . .I'm not sure, exactly. . .there was. . .my mother's voice, and Bilbo's, and then I can't remember exactly, except being so cold. . .and hurting. . . . And I. . .I w-was wearing. . .Bilbo's ring that he showed me. . .on a chain. . .at my neck, and. . .Bilbo was s-so much older, and. . .wh-when he saw it, h-he. . . ."
The tweenager's voice trailed off. He felt suddenly unable to say more, a wave of nausea rising in his throat.
"He seemed. . .different. . .to you, didn't he?"
Weakly Frodo nodded, clinging closely to Gandalf's robes, nestling into the warmth of the aged wizard's beard.
"It's all right, my boy. . .it was only a nightmare. Bilbo loves you very much, and you're quite safe here." Continuing to rub Frodo's back gently, Gandalf shushed him softly, rocking methodically back and forth, the motion of the chair slight enough to avoid provoking any further degree of nausea in the small tweenager. A light tap heralded Bilbo's return: still looking somewhat shaken himself, Bilbo brought in a mug and spoon, setting it by the chair.
"There we are. . .a bit of broth for my little lad. . .if you'd rather something else, Frodo, I don't mind fixing it. . .I could make you some eggs, if you like. . .or toast. . . ."
He ventured closely, his movements tentative. For a moment he cast a questioning look up at Gandalf before reaching out, brushing Frodo's dark curls from the young hobbit's forehead gently before resting a hand there, checking his small charge's temperature. This time, feeling less startled, Frodo did not pull away.
Bilbo was there. It would be all right.
Smiling, Gandalf kept Frodo cradled against him with one arm, reaching to take the mug. "Do you think you can sip a little, Frodo, or shall we try spoonfuls?"
Frodo kept his eyes on Bilbo's: blue eyes meeting brown. Desperate, searching. . .and so loving. . . . That look reminded Frodo of some nine years earlier. . .his parents' funerals, one after the other. . . . Not a single Baggins had come to Buckland for the services and burial. Only Bilbo. . .and in the bustle of the meal afterward (large meals being, of course, a standard hobbit-tradition on both sides of the Brandywine following any event, happy or sad, with after-funeral meals usually becoming enormous potluck-style dinners, with dishes sent by neighbours from everywhere within reasonable distance), rather than abandoning Frodo to the weeping and chatter, he had prepared a tray and carried both tray and hobbit-child off to Frodo's room, allowing the boy to sit in his lap and sob in private before insisting on some of the dishes – all Frodo's favourites – getting into the small stomach. And between spoonfuls of hearty mushroom soup and bites of apple pie, Bilbo told him stories of his parents' youth and courtship. . .and of their early years with their only child, whom Primula had called "the apple pie of my eye – better than just the apple!" And then Bilbo had sat in the rocking-chair, rocking him gently, after coaxing as much of the meal down as Frodo would take. . . .
He had fallen asleep in Bilbo's arms, lulled to sleep for the first time since they had died.
And the next morning. . .Bilbo had still been there. Frodo had awoken in his own bed, tucked in comfortably with his favourite quilt; Bilbo was snoring lightly in the chair beside him, one hand still clasping the smaller hobbit's.
It had been such a long time since he thought about that. . . . Musing, he looked from Bilbo to Gandalf, nodding.
"I can sip a bit. . .but I'd rather Bilbo gave it me, please."
~To Be Continued~
I don't know all the places where it applies, but in the southern mountains where I grew up, the practice described regarding neighbours and post- funeral meals remained traditional until recently, and may still be practiced in some areas. It was the custom for church friends and close neighbours to "bring something" – ostensibly for the practical purpose of helping the immediate family feed all the out-of-town relatives and not have to worry about cooking for themselves to boot. Anything was fine, though usually at least one bucket of fried chicken showed up on the table. . .but homemade items were considered an especially nice gesture. But that's something that seemed to me to fit very well with hobbit practices, somehow. . .and so it's in my story. If people wish, once I get through a few more of my current fics in progress, I might very well take on the story of that time period: the drowning of Frodo's parents and the subsequent events.
Updates: I don't think Yahoo help could GET any slower. Sorry the group isn't yet moved, gang. Curu Ithilin – answer to your question pending, I promise!
As always, thank you all SO VERY much for reading and reviewing! You all are so wonderful: my dear readers, my Silmaril in the darkness. . .thank you all so very much.
For permission to reproduce, please contact frodobaggins@frodo.com
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns.
SHADOWS IN THE DARKNESS
Chapter Seventeen: Old Memories and Apple Pie Thoughts
"What happened, Frodo?"
Gandalf's voice was gentle and calming, and as Frodo felt his sobs beginning to ease a bit, he somehow felt. . .well, safe. . .with the idea of confiding in the wizard. Drawing a tremulous breath, he curled up a bit more in Gandalf's arms.
"I. . .had dreams. . .awful ones, with. . .I'm not sure, exactly. . .there was. . .my mother's voice, and Bilbo's, and then I can't remember exactly, except being so cold. . .and hurting. . . . And I. . .I w-was wearing. . .Bilbo's ring that he showed me. . .on a chain. . .at my neck, and. . .Bilbo was s-so much older, and. . .wh-when he saw it, h-he. . . ."
The tweenager's voice trailed off. He felt suddenly unable to say more, a wave of nausea rising in his throat.
"He seemed. . .different. . .to you, didn't he?"
Weakly Frodo nodded, clinging closely to Gandalf's robes, nestling into the warmth of the aged wizard's beard.
"It's all right, my boy. . .it was only a nightmare. Bilbo loves you very much, and you're quite safe here." Continuing to rub Frodo's back gently, Gandalf shushed him softly, rocking methodically back and forth, the motion of the chair slight enough to avoid provoking any further degree of nausea in the small tweenager. A light tap heralded Bilbo's return: still looking somewhat shaken himself, Bilbo brought in a mug and spoon, setting it by the chair.
"There we are. . .a bit of broth for my little lad. . .if you'd rather something else, Frodo, I don't mind fixing it. . .I could make you some eggs, if you like. . .or toast. . . ."
He ventured closely, his movements tentative. For a moment he cast a questioning look up at Gandalf before reaching out, brushing Frodo's dark curls from the young hobbit's forehead gently before resting a hand there, checking his small charge's temperature. This time, feeling less startled, Frodo did not pull away.
Bilbo was there. It would be all right.
Smiling, Gandalf kept Frodo cradled against him with one arm, reaching to take the mug. "Do you think you can sip a little, Frodo, or shall we try spoonfuls?"
Frodo kept his eyes on Bilbo's: blue eyes meeting brown. Desperate, searching. . .and so loving. . . . That look reminded Frodo of some nine years earlier. . .his parents' funerals, one after the other. . . . Not a single Baggins had come to Buckland for the services and burial. Only Bilbo. . .and in the bustle of the meal afterward (large meals being, of course, a standard hobbit-tradition on both sides of the Brandywine following any event, happy or sad, with after-funeral meals usually becoming enormous potluck-style dinners, with dishes sent by neighbours from everywhere within reasonable distance), rather than abandoning Frodo to the weeping and chatter, he had prepared a tray and carried both tray and hobbit-child off to Frodo's room, allowing the boy to sit in his lap and sob in private before insisting on some of the dishes – all Frodo's favourites – getting into the small stomach. And between spoonfuls of hearty mushroom soup and bites of apple pie, Bilbo told him stories of his parents' youth and courtship. . .and of their early years with their only child, whom Primula had called "the apple pie of my eye – better than just the apple!" And then Bilbo had sat in the rocking-chair, rocking him gently, after coaxing as much of the meal down as Frodo would take. . . .
He had fallen asleep in Bilbo's arms, lulled to sleep for the first time since they had died.
And the next morning. . .Bilbo had still been there. Frodo had awoken in his own bed, tucked in comfortably with his favourite quilt; Bilbo was snoring lightly in the chair beside him, one hand still clasping the smaller hobbit's.
It had been such a long time since he thought about that. . . . Musing, he looked from Bilbo to Gandalf, nodding.
"I can sip a bit. . .but I'd rather Bilbo gave it me, please."
~To Be Continued~