Disclaimer: I believe everyone knows the drill. I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien. I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them. I hope he forgives me this.
A/N: Sorry it took so long.
Being the Fifth Part of . . . .
With The Rising and Setting of Anar
Two-and-a-half weeks later, Gandalf the Grey set out from Bag End, limping along the East Road until he passed once again into the East Farthings. The days were long and weary for the wizard and for once he took no pleasure in the simplicity of the Shire, for no longer did it seem a haven were he could, at least for a time, rid himself of a responsibility long laid upon his shoulders. The sun neither cheered his thoughts nor lightened his mood and the further he trod the more he hated what he knew he must do. Though Gandalf realized that young Frodo would not be the only orphan caused by the great evil surging from the South, at the same time he knew that the wee halfling would be the first in a great flood of sorrow and grief.
"This is what starts it all," Gandalf mourned on the afternoon the Baranduin spread out before him in a glistening sheen of gold. Brandy Hall was visible on the eastern shore, large and snug as only a smial could be.
With a hearty sigh, he came upon the Bucklebury Ferry, where a hobbit-lad of about twenty sat upon a moored ferry dragging his feet in the cool water. At the wizard's approach, the youngster glanced up and his brown eyes widened in wonder and his mouth gaped open.
Gandalf smiled at this youth, for his innocence was refreshing. "To Brandy Hall, my good lad, for matters of great import await me there."
The hobbit-lad could only stare.
"Come, come, would you deter a man such as I?" he asked, frowning (his features suddenly fierce to any a child) and the youngster's eyes, if at all possible, widened more.
"N-n-no, sir," the hobbit-lad stuttered and, his eyes holding naught save fear, he stumbled to his feet. "T-to Brandy Hall." He picked up a discarded pole and set it in the depths of the water.
The wizard allowed the tween a smile and "There's a good, lad," before, with the aid of his staff, he climbed aboard the flat, wooden ferry.
"And Mrs. Baggins isn't doing at all well, Mr. Gandalf," the hobbit-lad said, very matter-of-fact. "She won't eat save perhaps at supper, and that only rarely. 'Tisn't natural, is what my Da says, though my Ma thinks it's natural enough, what with Mrs. Baggins having a broken heart and all, or some such case like similar." For one so small, the youth had incredible strength. He was less than half the size of the wizard and yet he handled the ferry with the ease of one who had been raised for such an occupation. The lad seemed to enjoy it, too, and he showed no fear of the water. An odd trait for a hobbit, whether he was a Brandybuck (which was most likely) or, say, a Grubb.
Gandalf peered at the small child. "And how does one come to learn of such going-ons?" he wondered aloud.
The hobbit-lad looked up at the wizard. "Ma's quite the gossip," he said, almost apologetically. "And Da never pays much mind to me. He likes to talk, my Da does, and it's a good combination, I suppose, depending the way you look at it. I suspect its good, anyway--for me." He smiled impishly and Gandalf couldn't help but chuckle.
"And what do your parents say," he asked, a moment later, "about the cause of such grievous actions?"
After the initial shock of seeing a human and once Gandalf's intimidating appearance wore off, the wizard found that the hobbit-lad was quite active at the mouth. The wizard learned many an interesting thing from the tween, for the trip over the Brandywine was not a short one, and it was not long before the youngster brought up some disturbing--if not quite unexpected--news from Brandy Hall.
"Like I said, my Ma thinks Mrs. Baggins' suffering from a broken heart," and he sighed heavily. Gandalf suspected the youth agreed with his mother, though perhaps not for the same reasons. "Both my parents . . ." he hesitated. Then, "They say Mrs. Baggins has finally realized what she done."
Gandalf's brow furrowed. "What has she done?" he asked.
The hobbit-lad shoved with the pole, sending the ferry that much closer to the eastern shore. It was several moments before the tween said ought and Gandalf could tell that it was only with great reluctance. "They say she regrets marrying a Bagginses," and, having said as much, the hobbit-lad glanced nervously at the wizard.
Gandalf went rigid and there was a sudden light in his eyes that was terrible to behold. He shook with suppressed rage and would speak ought else. The remaining ride was made in silence--the hobbit-lad's mouth clamped firmly shut, gazing miserably to the eastern bank and the wizard's eyes, hard and cold, watching Brandy Hall. It was not long before they came to the eastern dock.
Drogo watched his son touch the caterpillar with a pudgy finger, and then, squealing in delight, over balance and topple backwards. The hobbit laughed deep and heartily while his child looked at him in a hurt sort of manner.
"Ow," Frodo pouted, holding up a hand toward his father. Drogo chuckled and kissed his son's palm.
"All better," Drogo said, spreading his arms wide.
"Aw be'r!" the child laughed, imitating his father. With great difficulty, Frodo got to his feet and ran down to the water's edge, splashing into its shallow depths and laughing as fish darted from beneath his feet.
"How easy it is to heal your hurts," Drogo commented with a fond smile, watching his son pick up and admire a rock. A sudden pang came to his heart and, biting his lower lip, he swallowed away the tears that had been trying to force themselves upon him for the last month, for it was then, together, that he and his wife had made a descision . . . .
"He is Human!" she cried, her cheeks damp, her hands shaking. "He is naught save a crazy human. Who is he to tell us to give up our son—our son! Not his! Not the Outside's! Ours!"
"Primmy, Primmy," Drogo murmured, as if it were a soothing balm to his breaking heart. "He is Gandalf. Do you remember the Old Took, love?"
Prumula nodded. "Yes," she whispered.
"He was not one to put his trust in any old gentlehobbit and he, Gerontius, trusted an old man dressed in gray." Drogo looked at his wife and he saw her eyes shimmer. "Who is this Gandalf? I know naught and perhaps the Old Took didn't either, and then, perhaps he did. I remember once, when I was young, he told my friends and I a tale I will never forget. A tale of a Grey Pilgrim who knew things others would never, could never, dream. My love, there is something about him. Something," he murmured.
Primula looked to her husband and knew that he had made a decision, deep in his heart, one that was honorable above the greatest of Gondor, but that held so much hurt toward her that all she wanted to do was curl up upon the floor with her so very small Frodo and let the world pass them by.
She couldn't, though, she knew she couldn't. Her husband was right. In her heart she knew this, knew that Gandalf spoke truly and that he did not lie and would not prove false. Something told her this, told her quietly, secretly, that she must do this and if she could, perhaps then everything would be all right. Just perhaps . . . .
Drogo choked on his unshed tears. "If only other wounds mended so easily, or were so very small." A light touch on his shoulder caused the gentlehobbit to turn. Primula rested a delicate hand upon him. She watched their son with eyes so ravaged with grief that few of late could bear to look within them.
"If only . . ." she whispered, her voice like that of the wind.
Drogo reached around and, grasping her small hand within his own, she knelt beside him and laid her head upon his shoulder. Brushing her hair aside, he kissed her on the brow.
For many long moments, the two watched their son together, never saying ought or moving at all. The last month had been a terrible thing, for either hobbit. Days filled with confusion, with doubt, and with fear. Every night, Primula cried herself to sleep, her cheeks wet long after the darkness had come. Drogo held her often, his own eyes dry. For her sake, he told himself, though if truth were told he couldn't allow himself to cry, for once he did he feared he would not have the strength to cease. Frodo was their light when it was dark, their joy when misery stalked the halls, and their laughter when their world held silence. He was their creation through a love that was more beautiful than an Elvish Queen. To lose that--to lose him--was something worse than death--it was an endless death knowing they could never see him, never see that part of them that they had brought to life.
"Why?" Primula whispered, so softly that Drogo wondered if he had imagined it. "Why, my love, why?"
Drogo could not answer, for he did not understand either.
Frodo laughed gaily then, and Drogo's worn, tired eyes fell upon his son. The toddler smiled at his father and held on high a rock he had found. Climbing from the water, Frodo ran, stumbled, fell, and crawled the rest of the way to his parents, all the while the rock still clutched within his fist.
"Ma-ma," he gurgled happily, crawling into his mother's lap, who held him close and fought the tears that threatened to come. She had never cried in front of her son, and she did not intend to do so now. Frodo held up the rock to show his mother.
Primula smiled fondly at him. "Oh, my," she said softly as Frodo set the smooth rock in her palm. "It is beautiful, my love." Her sapphire eyes fell upon it almost lovingly, for when one first looked at it it appeared ordinary as only rocks can seem, but when looked at for a second time or perhaps looked at through the eyes of a child one noticed the golden specks and dark gray rings it bore.
Frodo wriggled from his mother's lap and, crawling across his father, seated himself contently in the green grass. He looked up at his parents and smiled.
Primula swallowed a sob and, clutching the stone almost desperately, got hurriedly to her feet. Without a word and hardly a rustle of her skirts, she turned and made her way to Brandy Hall. Drogo watched his wife flee, knew what caused her to do so, and forced himself to look back into the trustful eyes of his son. That is what hurts the most, Drogo realized, the complete and honest trust a youngster puts into his parents and the parents knowledge that, if they fail, that look would be lost forever.